


What Lies Beneath

by N3kkra



Category: Original Work
Genre: Betrayal, Dragons, Elves, F/M, Falling In Love, Fantasy, First Love, Love and Loss, Original Character(s), Original Universe, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Outlawed magic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-26
Updated: 2020-08-31
Packaged: 2021-03-06 05:28:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 7
Words: 28,695
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25528195
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/N3kkra/pseuds/N3kkra
Summary: Nerithari Morvael's life has been turned upside down after her family is slaughtered for their campaign to liberate their colony from a distant Empire. After barely surviving an additional assassination attempt, she has no choice but to entrust her life to a Legionnaire assigned to a mysterious mission.Trust has always made it through the missions he's sent on, even if it meant he made it through alone. As punishment for losing his squad, he's sent alone on a mission with no details, he's told to find recruits and get the job done. Easy enough in the briefing, but after honor binding himself to a woman whose life is in danger, this mission only gets more and more complicated. And Trust has to face the fact that he might not make it through this one.
Relationships: Nerithari Morvael/Trust, Original Character(s)/Original Character(s), Original Female Character/Original Male Character
Comments: 11
Kudos: 2





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> An original story I've been working on and it's easier for me to share it with friends and family on here. This is a work in progress and I'll probably go back and edit things. I do appreciate any and all feedback anyone gives me on this. I do want to some day publish it, so if you like something (or don't) throw a comment down and tell me about it.

The only light came from fires reduced to smoldering embers and the massive Dragon carcass that emitted a faint green glow. All was quiet, only the occasional falling rock or the settling of a collapsed building made a sound. Had someone intentions of searching the rubble for anything of value or of life, they would have found traversing the ground next to impossible. 

Stone buildings lay crumbled on their roofs, overturned carts and stands littered the space between, and the _bodies_ , yet to be touched by insects, were horrible, mutated things with ugly faces and skin patched with scales and exposed flesh. Hundreds of them lay strewn around as if they’d fallen from the black sky above.

A figure clad in liquid shadow emerged from the darkness. It moved with such grace it all but floated over the debris and broken down buildings. 

It moved with purpose, knowing exactly where it was going. It eased its way toward the Dragon, and as it glided over it, the light wasengulfed by the darkness of the shadow and the body sagged as if everything that had ever lived within it was drawn out and it died all over again. When the being passed an ember, it gave up its remaining heat, leaving only pure darkness in the figure’s wake.

The shadow continued past all of the bodies until it reached a steel-clad one draped in a navy cloak. The heavy cloth flicked and sighed with the gentle breeze rolling over the dead, it seemed to act like a signal flag. When the shadow stopped beside the fallen soldier, the wind bringing the cape to life died, settling to the ground. 

Deafening silence held over the battlefield, a suspenseful breath held in wait.

Then the shadow lifted a thin red hand that bore long, claw-tipped fingers. Darkness dripped from the crimson digits, and a dim, purple light emanated from the creases in the palm. The shadow slowly turned its palm over toward the ground, and shadows wrapped around the soldier’s body and rolled over onto its back to show a creature with grimy, red skin and broken horn bases protruding from its forehead. 

It had the face of a man, dirty and bruised, broken from the fight before his fall. The steel casing his body showed signs of past battles, telling the story of a long life and death defeated more than once. The normally fiery eyes that glowed with their own light were but dim embers, stuck wide and staring, no more than two small corpses of long burning flames. 

The figure swept its hands over its head, pushing back its wispy hood to expose an angular, humanoid face. He tilted his head as his bright purple eyes gazed down at the body. He looked like the soldier, as if they were related. Both being red skinned and black haired, with horns protruding from their brows. The figure’s horns were long and curved up over his head remaining close to his skull, and then twisting around his pointed ears like a ram’s. His hair hung like long shadow down to his shoulders.

The figure knelt, his bright eyes searching the body for something specific.

He found it and his shadow cloaked fingers plucked the amulet from around the soldier’s neck. The figure appreciated the amulet as he stood. It depicted a skeletal hand holding a heart that bled spiked vines. It was an intricate thing that had a rune inscribed into the bone of each finger clutching the heart. 

As the figure held it closer to his face, the runes began to glow purple, matching his eyes. “It is not yet your time, son,” he said, his voice sounding like rolling thunder.


	2. Book 1: The Calm, Chapter 1: Flee

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nerithari's on the run, she just needs to meet her father's contact and get out of Stormever.

Nerithari Morveal’s leg shook impatiently, her heel tapping dully on the wood floor. She sat wedged between her two bodyguards in the corner most booth in one of the nicest taverns in Stormever, the capital of the Southern Expanse. She was hardly aware of her nervous motion because of the merry music playing loudly, the bard singing cheerfully, and the storm raging outside.

It always rained in Stormever, whether it was named because of it or if the rain was a magical product to make the name true, she didn’t know, and it wasn’t at the forefront of her mind at the moment. Instead, she kept replaying the last twenty-four hours of her forever changed life.

“M’lady,” her housecarl, Mithral, whispered, his voice low as he brought her attention back to the table. Fenre, her family’s retainer, had pushed some food in front of her and she had neglected to touch it yet. She met Mithral’s crimson eyes and swallowed hard.

“I’m not hungry.”

“ _You haven’t eaten all day_ ,” Fenre objected, speaking in their native dark elvish language. Even though they all lived in one of the most successful colonies the Dark Elven Empire settled, Fenre had never taken to speaking the surface’s common language, Iskaran. He knew Iskaran well enough to hold a conversation, but he only spoke it when he absolutely had to. She normally felt comforted by the reminder of where they all came from, of the Underworld where dark elves not only were the majority, but ruled unopposed. When the Empire started to settle the surface, forced to expand up from beneath the planet’s crust, dark elves were exposed to a whole new world and it did not welcome them with open arms.

By the time the dark elves came to the surface, Dragon Masters had replaced the thrones of mortals with their own seats of power and divided Iskara into their own territories. The dark elves were seen as invaders, and treated as such. Wars ensued, and for a long time, colonies were overtaken or completely lost. The colony she was from, Denerian, the largest and most successful, had withstood until a peace was found between the Empress and the Dragon Masters, and the colonies were allowed to grow as long as there were no more created. That was three or four generations ago and now Denerian was split in two, those who wanted to be free from the Empire and join under the Dragon Master’s rule, and those who remained loyal to the Empire and wanted nothing to do with the god-like magical creatures.

Nerithari’s family led the charge for Denerian’s fight for independence, and that was why she was here now, and why Fenre’s elvish words made her stiffen. “I’m not hungry,” she said again and cleared her throat, pushing the plate away.

Fenre sat up a little straighter and she wondered if he took her reaction personally. There wasn’t a memory she had that Fenre wasn’t apart of, for all of her life, he’d been there, watching over her. He was like a second father, and she didn’t know what she would do without him, but in this moment, she didn’t want to be reminded any more than she already was about what had happened to her parents.

Mithral pulled the plate back toward her and poked one of the slices of bread. Fenre had already taken bites of everything, making sure it was safe for her, but that would be the only thing either of them had eaten all day. She motioned for Mithral to have at it and he bowed his head slightly and took the bread.

Leaning back, she rubbed her upper arms to try to warm herself. The room wasn’t cold, but she couldn’t stop shivering. Her leg continued to shake, and she ended up sighing heavily. “We can’t just keep waiting here, if anyone recognizes me–” she started, but Fenre shook his head.

“ _Word of what happened in Denerian will spread quickly, but those responsible will be forced into hiding. This is our only chance to find somewhere safe for you, otherwise they’ll have time to corner us while we run, and Mithral and I will not be able to protect you, my lady_ ,” he said, his voice low. It was rougher than Mithral’s, mature while Mithral was no older than Nerithari.

Since the Dragon Masters came to Iskara and destroyed her sister planet Mercara, the magic that let elves live for centuries had been lost and the elven populations all over the planet dropped. Only the sheer size of the Dark Elven Empire saved it, and the Empress successfully maintained control and was able to move her people toward growth while every other elven kind saw fewer and fewer numbers. Even down in the Underworld, the dark elves heard about it, and were aware they were the most populous of the elves now. Because of this phenomenon, though, even the longest living elves looked no older than a twenty or thirty year old human. 

Nerithari and Mithral were young adults at twenty-two and twenty-five respectfully, while Fenre was just over fifty. Fenre was a lean thing, taller than any of them, with muscles like tightly wound rope. His skin was midnight blue, so dark it was hard to see the hue beneath it. His purple eyes stood out, framed with grey sclera and thick black lashes. His hair, though normally shaved, was red like Mithral’s eyes, giving him crimson brows that regularly knitted together over his hooked nose. The faint lines beside his eyes and the tired expression he would give when Mithral tried his patience where they only things that gave his age away.

“Fenre’s right,” Mithral spoke up. “Your father’s contact should be here any moment, we just need to wait it out a little bit longer.” He spoke casually around the bread in his mouth and she wondered how he could be so calm.

She supposed it had to be that Mithral was the last one to speak to her father and he’d been the one told to take her to meet this contact. Fenre was more skeptical, but agreed it was the only option they had without going completely into hiding. Nerithari didn’t want to go into hiding if she could help it. It felt like giving up on everything her parents had fought for.

Her parents were very successful tailors and moved up the social ladder enough so when they started to get into politics, they were taken seriously. Soon the family business was passed down to her older brother and her while her parents took on fighting for Denerian’s independence full time. The contact she was meeting was supposed to be a dwarf her father allied with to supply weapons to their militia. Apparently, her father knew the family was in danger and had set up this meeting to move their family out of Denerian to somewhere safe until the fighting resolved.

The stress of everything that happened, kept her from relaxing as she anxiously watched the door for dwarves. Unfortunately, the stout people were fairly common here in Stormever, as the city was built on top of a sheer cliff face that overlooked the ocean, and the Dragon Master employed the stone-savvy builders to maintain his city. Every other person coming through the front door seemed to be a dwarf, and all of them quickly went to the bar or to their friends at tables. It was wearing her out emotionally at this point.

“How long will we wait?” she asked and rested her chin on her hand, gazing at the door. “What if something’s happened to him?”

Just as she spoke, the door opened, and before she could dismiss the tall figure, he removed his dripping helmet. Fenre’s reply to her didn’t come because, just like everyone else in the tavern, he was looking at the new stranger.

Had he left his helmet on, he probably could have gone to the bar without much notice, but as soon as the bard’s song cut off with a gasp, not a soul in the establishment could look away. He was a devil with skin like fresh blood and eyes glowing bright as torches. His whole body was an obvious mass of muscle that dwarfed even Fenre. He wore heavy plate armor with a navy trimmed black tabard. When he removed his helmet, the antler-like horns branching out from his brows stayed, revealing they were his.

The demon only regarded the tavern’s staring patrons with a quick glance, before he turned and thumped over to the bar, his heavy steps echoing in the silence.

“He’s a Legionnaire,” Mithral observed when the stranger put his back to them. Nerithari noticed the massive shield on his back, it looked like a skull from where she sat, but she could tell there were more details she couldn’t see this far away.

“ _And a healer, did you see the White Hand over his heart_?” Fenre asked, his voice low. A few others were whispering, and the bard was trying to regain her composure and get the instruments going again.

“What’s a Legionnaire?” Nerithari asked, feeling like she was missing something.

“ _A member of the Forsaken Legion_ ,” Fenre answered, his purple eyes locked on the demon still. “ _It’s a very honorable outfit, but one no one joins if they have any other choice_.”

“Why?” That seemed counterintuitive.

Now Mithral explained. “It’s for life, you fight for the Legion until you die.” And then he added in a lower voice, his lips curling into a mischievous, “Some even say you still serve after you die.”

“ _If you have a choice, you don’t choose the Legion_ ,” Fenre confirmed and shifted where he sat. “ _Each one has his reasons, I can only imagine his_.”

Curiosity distracted Nerithari as she watched the Legionnaire at the bar attempting to order something. She could almost hear him, but his words were lost in the din. He had thick black hair covering his head and jaw, and the more she looked at his face, the more elven and the less alien it looked. He had the same sharp features and pointed ears her kind had that separated them from humans. But his red skin, solid orbs of fiery colored eyes, and the heavy looking horns that replaced his brows made it hard not to stare.

She realized she wasn’t the only one staring when he finally turned back around to look at everyone and several people, including her, jerked their heads away to appear as if they hadn’t been watching him. Nerithari blinked several times and then dared a glance up at the Legionnaire. He was taking a seat at a lone table near the door, setting his mug and helmet down so he could watch the bard as she performed. Now Nerithari could make out the white handprint on his tabard, over his heart.

“What’s the White Hand?” she asked, realizing Fenre had pointed that out as well. “Does it have to do with the Legion?”

“ _No, it’s the mark of a cleric, someone who has dedicated themselves to a god and to healing the sick and injured. They can be great warriors as well, but normally those marked with the White Hand are peaceful and live in monasteries or churches_.” Fenre explained it all but Mithral snorted.

“I find it hard to believe any god would bless a demon with the power to heal,” he said and pushed the remaining food toward Nerithari and Fenre.

“ _There are many gods_ ,” Fenre offered.

“God-like beings,” Nerithari corrected and Fenre bowed his head, acknowledging her belief. There were plenty of things that claimed to be gods, and were worshiped as such, and one such thing were the Dragon Masters. Benava, the master of Stormever, didn’t demand worship, but he did nothing to discourage those who chose to treat him as if he was divine. But there were other things out there, more mysterious and less present on this plane of existence that bestowed power to mortals and offered knowledge in exchange for reverence.

The door opened again and Nerithari stiffened with suspense as a team of five dwarves came in and gazed around, searching for something. When the leader, a taller dwarf with dull auburn hair and a thick beard braided into ten or so lines down his chest, saw her, he puffed up and marched toward her table.

“They’re here,” she said happily, but tried to keep her face passive. Her entire body relaxed. The whole group of dwarves looked battle-hardened and was armed with short hammers and axes. They all were equipped with worn leather armor and some of them had painted faces. As they drew nearer, the hair on the back of her neck stood up and she got a sudden pit in her stomach.

Fenre stood up, a hand on his hip, close to his dagger, while the other hung by his side. Nerithari knew his greatsword was propped up against the wall beside his seat, and she knew he was positioning himself so it would be easy for him to grab it if he needed to. Mithral, on the other hand, was slower to get up, if only just, and he let his arms cross over his chest as he looked down on the dwarves coming their way. The leader never looked away from Nerithari, his beetle-black eyes starting to make her feel uncomfortable.

She’d only met a few dwarves before. There was nothing for their kind in Denerian, it was a settlement founded in farm-rich land, flat in all directions and nothing worthy of mining for miles. Sure, some passed through or stopped for dark elven trade, but there were few interested in the clothes her family made, making her personal experience with the people as a whole, limited.

“Lady Morvael,” the lead dwarf said, coming forward so he could bow in front of her table. She was suddenly aware of how cornered she felt. “I am Thyorn Mountainbreak, and I’m here to help you,” he said smoothly, his voice soft. He stood to Fenre’s ribs, while the other dwarves were inches shorter.

Nerithari knew he was trying to put her at ease, but she couldn’t help but feel something was off. “My father never mention you,” she said before she could stop herself. Of course he had mentioned his dealing with the dwarves, but she couldn’t remember any of their names, but Thyorn Mountainbreak was not familiar in the least.

“That’s because he didn’t deal directly with me, but my superiors,” he answered, his mustache curving up as he smiled at her. “I understand your worry, I would be cautious if I were you as well, but we must get you on the move. Those who attacked your manor know you’re here.”

This made Fenre grab his sword and Mithral snag the hilt of his longsword. The dwarf motioned for the front door. “We have a ship chartered to take you to Falte, you’ll be safe there.”

Falte was the capital of the neighboring Dragon Master territory, and its Dragon was all but at war with the Dragon that ruled over Stormever. Benava was a water Dragon, which was why the city suited him so well not only in its constant rainfall, but its proximity to the ocean. Falte, on the other hand was a city built up a volcano with a fire Dragon ruling it, she also knew that Falte was known not only for its heat, but for the nearly ever present earthquakes that set off the volcano so often travel to and from the city was deemed hazardous to any that weren’t overseen directly by Djaphen, the Dragon.

“How did you do that? Benava and Djaphen have closed their boarders to each other,” Mithral asked, looking curious.

The dwarf smiled wider, showing broken and dirty teeth. “Smugglers, of course,” he answered quietly as the bard belted out a chorus.

Nerithari shivered to herself. She never thought of herself as a rule breaker, even when her family had to break some laws to work toward their independence. They were trying to help their colony, to become something more than just an extension of the Empire, but this was something else completely. “Why can’t we just go to another city? High Throne to the east isn’t off limits,” she suggested.

“The whole point of Falte is that you’re safe from those in Benava’s territory because of the travel ban,” Thyorn explained. “We must get going, the ship will depart soon. We only came up here to get you.”

It occurred to her there seemed to be a lot of them just to ‘come and get her,’ but she didn’t say anything and slid out of her booth to follow them out. As they made their way out of the tavern, Nerithari looked at the bard as she danced and sang. She was a beautiful woman with dark skin and curling black hair. Her clothes were bright and she twirled barefoot in front of the fire. Her hips, ankles, and wrists were decorated with golden coins that jingled as she moved. The gold told everyone who watched her she worked directly for the Dragon Master. In fact, everyone in the tavern was decorated in the precious metal, saying the same thing. The place was named the Gilded Gelding to tell everyone who came exactly who owned it.

It was the only reason Nerithari felt safe being as exposed as she was in there. The bard alone would have been armed with enough magic to pacify anyone that tried to attack Narithari, and that person would be arrested and taken to Benava for punishment. Now they were leaving, and now they had to rely on the dwarves and her guards to protect her. Not to mention the fact they were chartering illegal passage on a ship right out of Benava’s dock, and it wouldn’t take much for one of his Protectors to question them and their destination.

The storm outside let up some, allowing the sun to streak rays of light through the dark clouds. Rain continued to fall in fat drops, though, soaking her relatively quickly now that she was out from the cover of a building. Fenre and Mithral didn’t seem to mind, their armor either keeping them dryer than her clothes, or perhaps they were just good at hiding their discomfort. Nerithari wished she had an umbrella, the hood she wore wasn’t enough to keep her head dry.

As they went, she kept expecting the Dragon’s Protectors to descend on them, claiming to have heard them talking about their plans in the Gelding. But nothing happened as Thyorn guided them down the High Road to the cliffs so they could ride the elevators down to the docks hundreds of feet down. Mithral walked in front of her, between her and Thyorn and Fenre behind her so he could see all of them. The four accompanying dwarves walked two in front of her and two behind Fenre.

Thyorn took them down an alley that led away from the sounds of the ocean, Nerithari said nothing, but drew her soaked cloaked in closer, looking around to try to keep her bearings. She felt like they were going the wrong direction now, but she wasn’t sure if it was a part of the plan to get to the smuggler’s ship. This part of the city looked worn down, rugged, and there were few people walking through the streets here.

“Just up here, there’s a staircase that goes down to the dock we want –don’t need to take that elevator,” Thyorn chuckled and rounded a corner sharply.

The moment Mithral turned to follow him one of the dwarf beside her snagged her by the arm and ripped her down to his level, a knife coming out of nowhere. Nerithari barely got a scream out as the blade plunged into her ribs and she buckled, tumbling forward. The dwarf withdrew the blade and went in for another strike, but Fenre had drawn his sword and brought it down hard enough to separate the dwarf from both of his hands.

Nerithari fell onto her side and clutched at her wound. It burned so hot she thought she was on fire, but when she looked at it all she could see was her crimson blood staining her clothes and dark fingers. Tears and rain blurred her vision and she pressed against the wound like she knew she should, but it hurt so bad she couldn’t withhold the sob that climbed up her throat.

Mithral came back, his blade out, and he threw his blade at Fenre who brought his up to meet it quickly. She could barely make out their shapes above her, their swords flying through the rain soaked air at each other as someone shouted traitor.

Her mind reeled as she tried to put together what was happening. She was obviously dying, quickly, but someone had betrayed her, either Mithral or Fenre, but she couldn’t tell. They fought each other with faces twisted in hate and disgust.

Thunder cracked and lightning flashed across the sky, Nerithari felt the cobblestone ground shake a little under her. Mithral lurched forward, his sword burying deep in Fenre’s gut as the older elf swung his massive sword just too slowly to stop it. Mithral’s crimson eyes glared into Fenre’s hateful purple ones, and he pushed the older elf off his blade in disgust. Fenre’s greatsword fell to the ground beside Nerithari, and then he tumbled over.

Blackness took over her as Mithral looked down the alley at something.


	3. Chapter 2: Order

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Trust

Trust relaxed at the Gilded Gelding, sitting by the door, facing the massive hearth carved to resemble Dragon Master Benava, with blue flames dripping down from where the flue would have been. He had a mission: report to Stormever’s Dragon and see why the Forsaken Legion was called. The only details they were given said Benava had concerns about one of his smaller settlements losing contact, Trust’s superiors saw this a lot with Dragon Masters when they stopped getting their taxes, and usually it only required a Legionnaire or two to pay the settlement a visit to get them to start paying again. So, they doubled the mission up with a fierce recruitment operation as Trust’s punishment for losing his entire squad on his last mission. This meant that the only Legionnaires that would help him would be those that he recruited and trained himself. So far he had no recruits.

Coming to a Dragon Master as a single Legionnaire was next to stupid as he could insult the Dragon on behalf of the entire Legion, implying that the Master of the territory wasn’t worthy of anything more than a single soldier. General Rax was sure that Trust would have recruits before he got to the Dragon and could ask the Master if he had any prisoners in his cells that could be turned over to the Legion.

Trust preferred recruiting people that had a choice; sons with too many older brothers, women looking to prove themselves or get out of marriages, and old warriors needing a purpose again. Prisoners saw the Legion as an escape plan, and more often than not, they ran once they were freed from their cells and alone with the Legionnaires in the woods.

The remaining recruits were often sent to hunt the traitors as a first lesson.

Trust had only just starting eating the stew he’d paid far too much for, when a group of dwarven mercenaries entered the tavern. He paid them only a glance until they made for the back corner where a trio of dark elves sat.

They were a nervous looking bunch he’d noted when he first came in. Dark elves were not common outside of the Underworld and their colonies, despite their numbers. They kept to themselves and their cities. He had met plenty, and served with several as they joined the Legion just like any other race, but he rarely saw them in Dragon Master territories. Especially their capital cities.

And never in a tavern owned by the Master himself.

It stood out in the kind of way that Trust knew something was up, and it had to do with the woman sitting between what had to be her bodyguards.

Like every elf he’d met, she was beautiful, but she was small, and frail looking. Her hair poured down in white waves from her head to disappear down her back, contrasting drastically with the obsidian skin she sported. She was a young thing, based solely on how she held herself and the way she gazed around with wide, doe like eyes of two different colors. Elves were easy enough to read when you knew what you were looking for. The young ones looked and acted like you expected. The older ones looked no older, but acted mature and usually were slower to act and with a cooler head. Just by looking at how anxious the girl was, tapping her foot, and looking around, he could tell she was young, while the guard with the shaved head was old. The other guard was most likely the girl’s age, he had the sort of bravado Trust had seen in recruits a thousand times and could get a sense for after watching only a few moments.

What he couldn’t figure out was why the girl looked to relax when the dwarves came in, only to tense back up when she spoke to the taller one.

It was relatively easy for Trust to watch people without them knowing, all he had to do was turn his head to appear he was looking somewhere else, and let his eyes settle on them. Without the normal eyes of most mortals, few could track his gaze, and assumed he was simply looking where his head was turned.

The guards stood up, as if threatened, either by the dwarves or what they said. The girl looked scared, her eyes wide and flicking rapidly from the dwarf to her guards. Her right eye was clearly red, white the left shone bright blue. A rare trait for elves, the whites of her eyes actually were just that, white. Neither guard with her shared in this, the young one having red eyes with darker red surrounding, and the other purple and grey.

She got up, almost reluctantly, and left with the dwarves, looking lost in her thoughts, or maybe held hostage by them as she stared at the bard on her way out.

Trust knew guilt when he saw it. Something was going to happen, and it was either going to happen to her, or she was going to be an unwilling participant.

Trust sucked in a long breath and stood. His gut didn’t normally push him in the wrong direction so he waited only a few breaths before following them out into the rain.

As a Legionnaire, he was expected to act in an honorable and respectful way, to protect innocence and to help the needy in addition to the missions he or his cell were given. Each Legionnaire looked at acts of honor in different ways, meaning that other Legionnaires would only proceed to their mission and keep to their own business while he felt the need to secure the safety of these dark elves.

He had time before he needed to meet with Benava, so he could make sure the girl gets to where she’s going safely. If she made it onto a ship or into a home, and he didn’t hear anything after, he could tell himself she was safe, and get back to his mission.

Since they traveled on the High Road, it was hard for him remain unseen and keep them in view. The High Road was Benava’s massive road that connected his castle, to his dock, and then out of Stormever and into the Southern Expanse. If you needed to get to Stormever, you got on the High Road, ever settlement was connected to it by smaller roads. It was wide enough for at least four carriages as well as those parked in front of shops. It was also populated enough that while they were on it, the dark elves were safer than they would be anywhere else in Iskara. If anything happened on the High Road in the city of Stormever, Benava knew about it, either through faithful citizens or through the Protectors he had patrolling the streets.

It wasn’t until Trust saw the dock elevators and he didn’t see the red hood of the girl that he realized he’d lost the group. He paused and looked around, ignoring the stares of passersby. They must have gone down an alley. He sighed and doubled back, but it would be impossible for him to find them now.

Trust picked a random side street and wandered down it, listening as the din of the High Road faded away. He couldn’t believe he had lost them, but he knew he couldn’t let his frustration cloud his attention.

A scream echoed through from a side street. It was cut off abruptly and he found himself sprinting in the direction he thought it came from. He couldn’t be sure it was the dark elves, but it didn’t matter in this moment.

These side streets were curved and built one building at a time, expanded in a way that they seemed like after thoughts, and it took Trust longer than he wanted to get close enough to hear fighting. Words and metal clashing.

Lightning flashed and a new downpour emptied down from the sky, blocking out any light the sun had previously managed to get through the clouds.

The fighting stopped. Trust nearly ran past the alley, but his peripheral picked up the dark shapes, and he stopped. When he started down the passage, he started counting bodies. Only one dark elf remained standing, and it was not the girl.

She lay sprawled out on the ground beside the older guard, her hands on her stomach, but she wasn’t moving.

Immediately, Trust grabbed his shield and mace. The dark elf guard noticed him and lifted his longsword to point at him. “This is no business of yours, Legionnaire.”

“Since you know I’m a Legionnaire, then you know that’s not true,” Trust said through bared teeth. He could only imagine what led to this elf being the last one standing, but he didn’t trust the guard enough to lower his shield. “Are any of them alive?”

“My charge,” the guard said and knelt next to her, he didn’t take his eyes off of Trust long. He touched the girl and shook his head. “She’s lost too much blood.”

Trust growled to himself and marched forward, lowering his mace but not the shield. “Step away from her, let me see.”

The guard hesitated but then stood and took a step back, sword in hand. Trust knelt beside the girl and placed his shield between them and the guard. Without turning his head completely away from the standing elf, he tried to assess what all was wrong with her. He waved a hand over her and faint golden light emitted from his palm. He could sense her presence but other than that, nothing, which made him very uncomfortable; the spell normally gave him a mental image of any wounds so he knew what to do.

“Is she a mage?” Trust asked the guard sharply. The guard jumped, seeming startled.

“No,” he said. “No, she’s just… a girl.”

Trust wrinkled his nose and looked back down at her. He waved a brightly glowing hand over the bleeding wound but nothing happened. That told him all he needed to know.

The guard shifted to try to see around Trust’s shield, but a look from Trust froze the elf in place. Trust rummaged around in the small pouch on his hip for a red vial. He pulled the cork out with his teeth and poured the liquid into the girl’s parted lips. She didn’t react for a moment, and then she breathed in and coughed roughly.

“I thought clerics used magic,” the guard stated, looking down at his charge skeptically.

“There are many kinds of magic,” Trust responded and eyed the guard more carefully now. The man’s blue skin was cut in several places, but nothing that would kill him, and obviously he was well enough to stand and question the man saving his charge. “What was your business with these dwarves?”

“They were supposed to be taking us to a safe place, she is… in danger,” the guard said, shifting uncomfortably as he looked down at her. “Has the bleeding stopped? Will she live?”

“She’ll live,” Trust confirmed and glanced back down at her. Her pure white hair was so long it had to hang to her knees when she stood. The dirty street stained it and her clothes, and the rain soaked every bit of her as she lay, breathing short, quick puffs of air. The potion took longer than his magic, but it would fix her. Now he turned his attention to the dead guard.

“Leave him,” the living one snapped and Trust glanced up at him from under his heavy brow. Without his helmet, his stare was penetrating, but while wearing it, he knew his eyes could unsettle the strongest heart as they emitted light from the black shadow. He relished the pause the guard gave when meeting Trust’s gaze. “He betrayed us. He’s the reason they knew we would be here. We were supposed to meet her father’s contacts but,” he gestured to the dead dwarves and didn’t finish his statement.

“I see,” was all Trust said and he continued to look at the fallen elf. His eyes were stuck open, staring up at the rain that fell into them. His body was covered in deep, bleeding cuts and Trust noted a few places hammers had struck his studded leather armor, no doubt breaking bones. He put up a good fight against the dwarves, but if he had been the informant, why would they attack him as well?

Trust stood up and place his shield on his back. “We need to alert the Protectors of what happened here. It will be far worse if they find us here like this.”

The guard swallowed hard and nodded, moving toward the girl, but Trust stepped in front of him and bent down, scooping her easily off the ground. She couldn’t be much taller than five feet and she felt no heavier than a few sacks of flour.

“What’s your name?” Trust asked the guard as he started toward the street that would take them back to the High Road.

“I’m Mithral, trusted housecarl of Lady Nerithari Morvael of Denerian.”

“And this would be the Lady Nerithari?” Trust asked for confirmation as he glanced over at the bodyguard. When the man nodded, he added, “And the other bloke?”

“The Morvael retainer, Fenre, he’s served the family for as long as he’s been around from what I’ve heard,” Mithral said, seeming disgusted.

Trust thought about that and wondered what could have turned a man who served a family for his whole life against them. He decided not to ask about this yet, instead, he glanced around and caught the attention of a robed Protector.

Soldiers sworn by magic to serve the Dragon Master, Protectors were the most self-aware and intelligent thralls Trust had ever seen. Of course, Protectors and Dragons alike claim the Protectors had full freewill save for acting against their Dragon, but Trust didn’t like the idea of any part of his freewill being taken, even if it was solely to prevent him turning on his commander. Protectors were also the only people outside the Legion that were permitted to use magic, which made them an outstanding police force. Talented mages could turn back time in small areas to replay the events that happened, allowing them to know exactly who committed a crime and how. It also made fighting them rather difficult.

Trust had magic, but his was focused in restoration, though he knew a few defensive spells, he knew he stood little chance against a fully trained Protector Mage. The warriors, on the other hand, he liked to think he could stand a chance against, but where there was one Protector, there were more, and a Mage was never far.

As the Protector drew close, Mithral stiffened. Trust ignored him and greeted the Protector with a slight bow. “There has been an attack,” he started, then explained what he found and where.

“Lucky a Legionnaire was close by,” the Protector said, her face placid as she looked between them. “I can take it from here if you have business,” she said, her bright green eyes falling onto the she-elf in Trust’s arms. It was hard to know for sure, but the Protector looked to be a high elf woman, based on her golden skin and lean frame. She wore heavy robes that repelled the rain in such a way it even parted water on the ground so she stepped only on dry stones.

“I have reason to believe the lady is still in danger, I cannot leave her side until I know she is safe,” Trust stated and the Protector’s expression twisted slightly, her lips pursing in thought.

“Very well, I will get a cart for the bodies and meet you back at the scene.”

The Protector Mage, Ellivanaria, Trust came to learn was her name, replayed the battle. While she was doing it, she had to focus, so other Protectors observed, and Trust stood nearby, watching as well. He saw Mithral follow the lead dwarf around the corner, and then Nerithari get stabbed by the dwarf beside her. He saw the other guard defend her, and Mithral attack the other dwarf when he heard her scream.

When Mithral came back to the others, the other guard had already taken out another dwarf and was working on a third when Mithral attacked him. The fifth dwarf was felled during their duel, and Mithral managed to take down his counterpart.

The Protectors seemed satisfied with the situation, considering it resolved. Trust kept his opinion to himself, and returned to where Nerithari started to wake up in the back of a covered wagon.

A thick Protector in Stormever’s styled plated steel stood near her, watching her and Mithral, asking questions about what happened. Nerithari only just seemed to realize what was happening as Trust walked up. He saw her expression shift from confusion to grief. She touched her side and looked around, tears welling up in her eyes.

“Now that you’re awake,” the massive Protector started, his voice gruff. He was an ogre, a people as tactful as they were beautiful, he didn’t seem to notice Nerithari’s wide-eyed stare. “Why did the dwarves attack you?”

“I… I don’t know? My… family was attacked,” she started to explain, her lip trembling. She started blinking rapidly, like she wanted to keep the tears back. “We were… my family started the revolution to gain independence from the Underworld.”

Trust couldn’t hide his surprise, but he quickly composed his expression. He’d heard of some dark elf colonies seeking to separate themselves from their empire, but almost all of them were built in strategic positions along the Rift. The Rift was a massive gash in the outer crust of Iskara, and the easiest entrance into the Underworld, but it was heavily guarded by the dark elves, and seen as the main entrance to their nation. There was no way that they would allow one of their colonies to separate themselves from the Empire and give up such a position.

“So they were assassins,” the Protector stated and shifted his massive weight, folding his arms at the girl.

She gulped and nodded, but her shoulders shifted in a shrug. Trust frowned. Neirthari glanced at him and then away quickly. She did this every time she looked at him, like she was afraid of being caught staring, even though she barely looked at him. Mithral, on the other hand, openly glared at Trust just as much as the Protectors.

“And why did the other guard attack?” the ogre asked.

“He was protecting me,” she started, looking at Mithral.

“He was a traitor, m’lady,” the housecarl said, his jaw clenched. “Think about it, he never spoke in Iskaran, he worshiped the Empire’s Pantheon, he was stuck in the old ways, and your family was _leading_ Denerian into the future, into change and independence. You didn’t hear him when you weren’t around…” he added, coming closer to Nerithari. She stared at him, eyes wide as she seemed to put these pieces together. “I’m sorry I didn’t see it coming, m’lady.”

Trust had to admit, it was a pretty good reason to turn on someone you owed allegiance to. He could only imagine how he would feel if the Legion suddenly decided to try to found their own country apart from the Dragon Masters and Underworld. It would defy their entire purpose of being neutral. Of course, some argued they weren’t really neutral as they could be bought to fight for Dragon Masters, replacing Protectors in the field of battle, which sometimes meant cells of the Legion were pitted against each other.

But Trust kept his thoughts focused on Nerithari now that she was answering questions and her body was reacting to stimuli normally.

“Who’s after you?” the Protector asked now that Mithral seemed to be done.

“I don’t know who’s after me,” she said and shook her head, her hands covering her face. She hesitated when she noticed her blood still caking her fingers. “I woke up yesterday in the middle of the night to Fenre coming into my room, he pulled me through the house, killed people, and then…” she shook her head and looked up at Trust. She was young, maybe in her early twenties and she had obviously never seen this much death. “We got out. Mithral met us and told us my father… that he said we needed to come here to meet his contact at the Gilded Gelding.”

Trust nodded and glanced sideways at Mithral who watched Nerithari very closely. He didn’t seem to notice Trust looking at him. The housecarl was only a few years older than Nerithari, but he didn’t seem unsettled by the death. His expression did darken when she said Fenre’s name, but that could be for any number of reasons.

“I don’t understand,” Nerithari whispered, her voice broken. “What did I do to cause this?” She gazed up at him with large eyes. Tears burned the whites red.

“I can’t help you with that,” Trust said and straightened up. He plucked another vial from his pouch and handed it to her, this one was no larger than his thumb and had maroon liquid sloshing around in it. “This is for any pain you feel, even if it’s from crying. Only let a single drop touch your tongue at a time, and wait until you feel it work before trying a second. If you take too much, you could numb your entire body,” he warned and she nodded.

“Thank you,” she said, and sniffed.

Trust straightened up and removed his helmet, setting the heavy thing down beside her so he could speak to the Protectors again and feel the cool rain on his face. He noticed the way she looked up at him, staring at his horns.

When he wore his helmet, it was a little easier for people to accept him as just a healer. People stared because he looked like a demon, because he had skin red as blood and eyes that glowed, horns that came from his forehead, and added to that, he was a healer and a member of the Forsaken Legion. He couldn’t have stood out more if he colored his hair or walked around with sparkling charms going off around him.

He ran a hand through his damp, black hair and turned his face away from her, though he kept his eyes on her. She didn’t seem to notice him watching her look him over, her expression hard to read. She looked from his hands to his wide antler looking horns, then the White Hand on his chest and the spaded tail hanging down beside his plate boots.

The Protector stomped away, mumbling something about reporting to his chief.

“I’m going to check your wound,” Trust said suddenly to Neirthari. His own curiosity got the best of him as he turned back to her and lowered his face to her level. She straightened up and looked around to see of anyone was watching.

Trust indicated to her side and she lifted her shirt just enough to expose her stomach and ribs. Her dark skin was smooth all the way up to the gnarly looking scar ripped across the bottom two ribs on her left side. He removed a glove and hovered his hand over her side, one more time he would try his magic. Trust pressed his thumb to the scar and his black, pointed claw-like nail touched her and he looked at her face to see a reaction but she was avoiding looking at him, instead she had picked a very uninteresting cobblestone to stare at. Trust refocused and urged a simple healing spell into their contact, but nothing happened, not even a flicker of light and his eyebrows pulled together involuntarily.

“Is that really necessary?” Mithral hissed and took a step toward them, his face darkening. “She is exposing herself in front of–”

“A healer,” Trust finished for him and gestured to the crowd that was unable to see her where she sat in the back of the wagon, out of the rain, though it poured down onto the two men.

“It’s fine, Mithral, he just wants to make sure the potion worked,” she said and cleared her throat. “If… I may ask; why didn’t you use your magic?”

Trust stiffened ever so slightly and withdrew from her so she could put her shirt back in place. Unsure of if she noticed, he answered her quickly so it didn’t seem like he was hesitating. “Potions are just another kind of magic. I don’t really have a preference, I used it because I had it,” he explained.

“What about Mithral? No one has healed him yet,” she pointed out and Trust realized it was true. He hadn’t volunteered his services and the dark elf hadn’t asked for them. “Could you…?” she looked hopeful. He wondered if she simply wanted to see the magic as the guard was getting on just fine.

“Of course,” Trust said a little stiffly. He turned to Mithral and lifted a golden-lit hand. He waved the light in front of Mithral and as it passed, the glaring red wounds began to stitch themselves shut and his dark blue skin returned to its natural color. No scars were left behind.

“Seems quicker than your potion,” Mithral pointed out.

Trust didn’t respond to that and instead turned back to Nerithari and gave her another glance over. “You should go back to the Gelding, you’ll be safe while you’re surrounded by Branded workers of Benava.”

“You’re going to leave us?” she asked, looking mortified. It was the first time someone hadn’t looked pleased at such news.

He tried to keep back his smile as he shook his head, “No, I simply have business at the Keep, it’s rather urgent.”

“We can go with you,” she said and slid off of the cart into the rain. Nerithari quickly pulled her hood up over her head to try to shield her face from anymore rain.

“You mustn’t trouble yourself,” Trust protested. “I’m here on Legion business. I have to recruit enough new soldiers to accompany me on the mission Benava has for me, and I promise you it’s not going to be as safe for you as the Gelding. When the Dragon Master hears of your attack, he will demand you be under his protection until he can find who’s after you.”

“No he won’t,” Mithral snapped. Nerithari and Trust looked over at him and he shook his head. “We aren’t his citizens, we’re… refugees,” he struggled to find the word but it seemed to be the perfect description because Nerithari stiffened and nodded shakily.

“He’s right. Denerian is a colony, it’s in Benava’s territory, but it’s property of the Empire and we are the Empire’s people, not Benava’s.” She folded her arms and began to shake. “He’ll care what happens to us only as long as it happens to us inside his city.”

Trust frowned, thinking. “You can travel with me if you wish,” he started slowly and noticed Nerithari look up, her mismatched eyes bright with hope. “But it will not be easy, not all recognize the Legion for what it is.”

“A band of mercenaries that profit off of war?” Mithral supplied and Trust’s expression darkened. Immediately, the dark elf seemed to shrink, but he didn’t retract his words.

“An honorable guild of warriors that offer kinship and a purpose,” Trust stated.

“At a price,” Mithral pointed out. “Your service is for life and your masters are the highest paying client, not the men giving you orders. That’s why you’re here to talk to the Dragon Master, because Benava is paying you to do something for him that he doesn’t want to send his Protectors to do.”

Trust knew how others saw his organization, but he normally didn’t have to debate it with people. His presence alone would shorten conversations to the minimum, and those who understood his uniform knew the White Hand meant he was a healer and the skull shield meant he was a member of the Grave Digger cell. Mithral was obviously getting over the initial unease of having Trust there, and now he let his opinions out as if Trust was just a human. It was both fascinating and annoying.

“You are welcome to accompany me until you feel safe, Lady Nerithari, but if your housecarl insults my organization, I will defend its honor.” Trust waited for her to nod her understanding. “And know I have not promised you ease or comfort while you are in my company, it is simply not the life I live.”


	4. Chapter 3: Master

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nerithari meets a Dragon Master, and learns Trust's mission.

Nerithari nodded eagerly, she knew it wouldn’t be easy to travel with the Legionnaire, but it would be safer than running for her life with only Mithral to protect her. She’d been fleeing for less than a day, had already been attacked for a second time, and lost one of her bodyguards to betrayal.

Her stomach dropped and her eyes began to sting. She looked away form the Legionnaire and tried not to bring attention to the sudden wave of emotion that took over her features. She didn’t want to think about how Fenre had allied with the Empire behind her family’s back. It was almost too hard to believe, but Mithral was right, Fenre observed a lot of customs from their homeland, even though he had spent little time there himself.

“We should get a move on,” the Legionnaire said and gestured for them to follow him. He went up to a large Protector wearing heavy armor and said, “I have business at the Keep, I’ll be taking responsibility for these two.”

Nerithari recognized him as one of the Protectors that had questioned her; he was a massive ogre that looked down at her and Mithral with tiny, black eyes. He was armored like the rest, coral styled plates covered him and spiked off his shoulders, his helmet was in the shape of the Dragon Master’s head with his mouth open to show off the man’s ugly face. His voice was deep and gurgled, like he had to speak through something in his throat. “Aye, I’ll tell the chief.”

As they made their way up to the castle, Nerithari realized she didn’t know the Legionnaire’s name and quickened her pace to put her up by his side. He was a great deal taller than her, and he appeared much heavier especially with the thick metal armor plating most of him, it made for an imposing appearance alone. When one added in his devilish features, including the long, spaded tail that followed behind him, his entire presence didn’t exactly invite conversation.

“What should we call you?” she asked, looking up into his glowing eyes. The colors were all of fire, and they looked like molten gold swirled around within them. She couldn’t tell where he was looking, but noticed how they moved just a little after she spoke and guessed he glanced at her.

“Trust is fine.”

Mithral reacted before Nerithari could. “Is that your name or advice?”

The Legionnaire tilted his head so he could look over his shoulder at Mithral. “Yes.”

Nerithari’s lips twitched and she said, “Legionnaire Trust.”

“It’s actually Grave Digger Trust of the Forsaken Legion, but I’ll respond to Legionnaire,” he replied. He was from the Western Isles, a wild place that produced strong, carefree people whom many from other territories considered brash. His accent was clear, but when he introduced himself this time, it came out thickly in his vowels and r’s.

“Did you join the Legion in the Western Isles? Or did you come to the mainland first?” she found herself asking curiously. The rain started to let up and she was able to look at him more clearly without getting pelted by thick drops.

Trust glanced down at her, or at least she was pretty sure he did, he didn’t move his head much. The helmet he wore covered most of his head and face with only narrow slits for his eyes and down the front so he could breathe, a mane of black hair stood on end running down the from the forehead to the base of the head of the helm with a tail coming off down his neck. His horns came out from just above the eyes and she noticed now that she was so close that he did not naturally have horns that looked like antlers, but that they had a curve to them that bent back and up and he had nailed sharpened metal spikes into his horns to look like tines. The only way he seemed to be able to remove the helmet was to grip it by the mane and pull it back and off, otherwise it would catch on his horns.

“I grew up in the Isles, but when I joined the Legion I left and haven’t been back since,” he answered her and then tilted his head up to the sky.

“Isn’t the Dragon Master of the Western Isles thoroughly insane?” Mirthal asked, coming up to walk beside Nerithari. She glanced sideways at him, wondering what was wrong with him, but he shrugged at her.

Mithral had always been a skeptical soul. He was unlike Fenre in how he would ask why something needed done, or why it needed done in the way it was asked of him, instead of simply doing it. It had been a flaw her father barely tolerated, which was why he was assigned to Nerithari when she started traveling outside of Denerian. She didn’t mind his constant questions, but would indulge him, and sometimes he would get her to think things over and do them differently instead of her original path. More often than not, it had worked out for the better. But as they strode up to the Dragon Master’s keep, she couldn’t find a reason for his questioning outside of trying to illicit a reaction from the Legionnaire.

“I’d like to see you say that to Master Reptcor’s face, mate,” Trust said, a genuine smile coming to his lips. Even though the helmet, it was obvious the image that came to mind made him happy.

Nerithari didn’t know anything about the Dragon Master referenced, but they were nearly to the Keep now so she didn’t ask. It was considered rude to compare Dragon Masters, especially when you were in one of their castles.

Two massive giants wearing full plate armor in the same coral color as the Protectors she’d seen so far guarded the front gates. Nerithari had never seen a giant before, and these two were certainly impressive firsts. They looked like humans, until Trust came to stand in front of one, tilting his head back so he could look up at its face. The Legionnaire, who stood nearly seven feet at the tip of the horns, didn’t even reach the knees of the giants before them.

One of the giants had a long, dark beard with shells, starfish, and coral tangled in it, the other looked clean shaven, but it was hard for Nerithari to see from her place on the ground and the fog and rainfall between them. When Trust introduced himself, the giant with the beard stretched as if he hadn’t moved in a while and then pushed the massive gate open. Seeing the effort that even he had to give to get it to move told Nerithari it would be impossible for one of them to open, and most likely all three of them would still need assistance.

They entered a large courtyard with waterfalls coming off the walls to flow into small pools. Above these pools, water swirled up in decorative shapes, hanging in the air. In the center of the yard a massive fountain had a carved statue of a young Dragon Master Benava reared up onto his hind legs and his head thrown back to blow an endless stream of water up into the air. His wings stretched out behind him and his tail coiled around the base of the carved rock he was perched on. Circling the fountain were carved citizens of every species bowing down before the Dragon Master.

Benava was a water Dragon and he took on aspects of the sea and her creatures because of it. He had pebbly and spiky scales like he was made of stone or sand and he had spindly horns that grew in all directions and fanned out in flat lines off of his head. He had a long, narrow snout with a thick chin and nose. On his back a large fin protruded, and two wings stretched out to either side for balance or intimidation, she didn’t know. He stood nearly as tall as the walls that surrounded them, making him roughly the same size as the giants outside.

She could only imagine what he looked like now. As beings of pure magic, Dragons couldn’t die of something like old age. They just didn’t age like mortals did, and that meant they showed their age in other ways, one of them being their size. Dragons never stopped growing, and their growth was also linked to their power. Benava was one of the oldest Dragon Masters on Iskara –some said he was one of the original Masters that usurped the Old Kings. This statue was hundreds of years old, almost as old as Stormever. She’d heard Benava was too large to leave his castle now, and she couldn’t imagine how big he had to be to be unable to leave such an outstanding structure.

Trust didn’t spare a glance at the statue and kept a swift pace for the Keep. Nerithari had to run to catch back up to him. Mithral trailed behind her at a comfortable pace, not allowing her to get too far from him.

The castle was made of dark stone wrapped with a layer of water that was held there by magic. The steps were also covered in a layer of water which flowed down at a soft pace that would have been pleasant if Nerithari wasn’t already soaked and wanted nothing but for her feet to be dry.

The gates to the castle were already open and on either side were two Protectors, a mage and an armored soldier. Blocking their immediate entry was a centaur dressed in ornate armor that set him apart from all of the other Protectors that Nerithari had seen yet. He stood tall, looking down on them from his position at the top of the stairs and atop his massive equine lower half. She couldn’t tell what his skin or fur looked like as it was fully covered in bright, colorful plate, and his helmet was full-faced, shaped like Benava’s head. A light, flowing cape draped off his shoulders and rested on his rump, it caught the wind and gave a soft bellow as Trust came to stand in front of him, his own cloak shifting, though heavily from being soaked.

It was then that Nerithari noticed the centaur wasn’t wet at all, his armor repelled the water that lapped at his hooves and dripped down from above. As he shifted, the water pushed away. More magic.

It made her sick to see how much magic was used by someone who demanded it be limited to his court for his own safety. Mages everywhere were being killed or imprisoned, Shackled or Branded, while this Dragon Master used it to keep his workers dry.

“It has been a long time since the Legion has graced Benava with a Grave Digger to oversee his task,” the centaur said by way of greeting, shifting the long spear made of flowing water in his hand. Trust didn’t seem bothered and came to stop in front of the Protector, on the top step, despite the small amount of room allotted. This forced the centaur to take a step back, or occupy an uncomfortably close space to the Legionaire. His golden shoed hooves clacked loudly against dry stone.

“General Rax said Master Benava didn’t give a lot of details for on mission,” Trust said and stood at ease in front of the centaur as Nerithari tried to look comfortable where she was standing a few steps down and to the side. “Our cells are stretched thin right now, the Rift is growing and this feud between Djaphen and Master Benava isn’t helping.”

The centaur shook, like a chill ran down his spine from head to tail and he stomped a hoof. “Do not speak that name in his presence. The benevolent Master awaits you in his Great Hall, I will escort you and your…” his helmet shifted slightly to look at Nerithari and she felt the distinct pressure of a judging gaze. “Company,” he finally decided on the word and spun around, marching into the Keep with them sloshing behind him.

The castle was massive, built in a way that more than one dragon could pass through its halls. From the outside, it appeared to have tens of stories reaching up into the thunderclouds, but once inside, there were obviously no more than three. The foyer had a grand double staircase reaching to the next floor, gold gilding the rail, and water pouring down its steps at a pleasant pace.

Massive coral doors opened when they approached, leading into a long reception hall. It was then that Nerithari realized all the stories about Benava were very true about his size, and maybe even a little understated.

Benava was one of the few remaining original Dragon Masters that took over Iskara some thousands of years ago. He was one of those that decided that Iskara’s twin planet, Mercara, tethered to Iskara by magic and massive earthen cables, should be destroyed. And he was one that, despite his power, never treated his subjects as slaves, let them go hungry, or otherwise forced his will on them. From what Nerithari had heard, his laws were there to keep peace and appeared to be just the same as the Old Kings before him, save the demand that magic users be Branded or Shackled.

Even millennia old Dragons feared death, she supposed.

The reception hall allowed Benava to stretch out his long form if he so wished, though now he was lying at the end of the space, where a gigantic bed of gold and precious metals lay piled. There were soft hides and mossy pillows under him, blankets that were soaked but looked expensive nonetheless.

Behind him, an impossible window looked out at the ocean, level as if it opened to the docks, and as large as the entire wall. Everything behind him was open ocean with rolling waves and distant thunder. When a particularly large wave came up, it splashed up into the window, and water poured out onto Benava, showing there was no glass, and somehow, he had the ocean right at his back despite behind hundreds of feet above it in his castle.

His tail stretched down the two hundred foot room, arched over the door to allow entry, and then went right back up so that the fans on the end –something that would have aided his swimming back when he was small enough to leave– curled up in front of him, a warning to any guest not to get too close. His long body was curled up similar to how a dog does on its mat, taking up little space despite its size. Benava had positioned himself so that his narrow shoulders pointed right up the walkway they’d had to cross to reach him. Five hundred foot columns supported the arched ceiling above with coral splaying out for added strength. Protectors of all sizes and kinds stood between the pillars, watery weapons ready for anything.

Everything in the room had a layer of water covering it, the floor, the columns, the walls and stain glass windows; it even rained down on Benava from the ceiling. The only light in the space came from glowing plants that grew from the walls. The air was soggy and thick here, making it hard to breathe.

The statue outside did no justice to the Master before them now. His head alone had to be as large as the statue outside. His coral antlers formed a brilliant crown instead of simply fanning out from his head. Horns grew like stalagmites from his jaw and pointed chin, while more organic looking spikes protruded from the narrow snout extending from his face. More horns grew from boney parts of his body, his shoulders, hips, down his neck and back along the spine, even down his tail. His massive wings were held up, gripping the nearby pillars with two claw tipped digits. The long, translucent membrane of his wings hung down like curtains on either side of him, flickering with the blue and gold lights of the room.

With his head held high, Master Benava had to bow his neck forward to keep from touching the ceiling with his coral crown. He gazed down at them as they approached, his eyes impossible to track but just as impossible to look away from. They were two massive golden orbs that drew attention in the aquatic castle, nothing else was as bright, warm, or welcoming. And yet, Nerithari knew that she couldn’t get lost in them, and she felt the hair raise on the back of her neck as an unsettling feeling settled on her.

Suddenly, Nerithari felt claustrophobic. She wished there was more sound in the room, that the dragon had a bard playing music or something, because the sound of rushing water made her feel as if she were on a sinking ship. Her stomach flipped and she thought she might lose her balance as she came to stand next to Trust on a rune carved into and glowing on the marble floor.

Water rushed away from it, repelled by its magic, but she felt nothing. She kneeled there, focusing on the still ground, at the few drops of water that pooled where her knees touched the rune, and not on the ever moving water around her.

Trust knelt and bowed his head. Keeping her head down, she didn’t move, even after Trust lifted his head and looked up at the Dragon. She had no idea what they were doing here outside of it being for Trust’s mission, and she wasn’t going to ruin it after he took her under his protection.

If only she could get Mithral to cooperate.

Out of the corner of her eye she noticed him still standing, staring up at the Dragon Master with a blank stare.

“Mithral,” she whispered as loudly as she dared at him. The rush of water flowing through the room meant it was not silent, but other than splashing there really wasn’t anything to drown her out. She glanced back at the Dragon Master, lying on his bed of gold and precious metals, she couldn’t imagine it was comfortable on the joints, but he looked perfectly at home. “Mithral,” she snapped again desperately and looked up at the Dragon Master in fear.

Her housecarl slowly took a knee, his gaze locked on the Master above him as his mouth went slack. Nerithari glanced up into the glowing eyes, but they didn’t transfix her like they seemed to Mithral. She looked back over at her guard and saw a thick tear well in his eye before falling onto his sweaty cheek. He swallowed hard and then bowed his head in what may have been shame, but she couldn’t tell. He stared widely down at the rune at his feet, his eyes barely blinking as tears dripped from them.

What had the Dragon done to him? Before she could ask if he was all right, a low voice broke the silence.

“Rise, Grave Digger Trust of the Forsaken Legion,” the words were deep, and they moved the air like a hand did water. The sound came from all around, not from the Dragon, but Nerithari knew it was Benava who had spoken, even when his mouth didn’t move. “And you, young, Nerithari Morvael of Denerian.”

Her heart gave a hard thump and she looked up at him, unable to hide her surprise. “You know who I am?” she asked without thinking. Quickly, she snapped her attention back to the floor, unsure if she was permitted to look on him, fearing he would do to her what he’d done to Mithral.

Trust nudged her with his foot, so she stood, but she didn’t lift her head. She could barely see out of the corner of her eye he was gazing up at the Dragon, his head tilted back so far he had to bend a little. She let her mismatched eyes flit up and toward the Dragon as he spoke. His voice made her teeth hurt, the sound resonating in her bones on an uncomfortable level.

“There is little that I do not know, _jala_.” The word was elvish and it meant young one, or little one. It was a term wisened elders used back when elves lived for thousands of years to refer to those that hadn’t seen more than a couple centuries. It was an _old_ word. It was a word that she had never been called or thought she would be. It never occurred to her that she could meet someone who could call her such a word.

Trust spoke while she stood in shock, staring up at the ancient being before her. “You know that I came to answer your summons, then?”

“I requested the Legion send me a squad to learn what happened to Galahebriel, and I am sent a single Grave Digger.” The words were stated as facts, as if commenting on the rain outside, but Nerithari could see Trust stiffen slightly. “I know the power Grave Digger Legionnaires have, and I am not offended. This journey is yours to make, and by doing it, you will discover what you seek.”

“Recruits for the Legion?” Trust asked, almost breathlessly.

Benava lifted his chin slightly and shifted his arms to adjust how he lay. The rustling of moving metal coin and ore was accompanied by the groan of a woman. She was reclined against Benava’s massive hand –each of his fingers were longer than she was tall. Nerithari hadn’t noticed her until now. The woman wore a revealing dress made of colors to match the Dragon’s scales, and her dark elf skin was a pale blue much like that particular section of the Master’s hand. The woman had pale red hair and wide, lilac eyes. She was pretty and looked Nerithari’s age, maybe younger.

Nerithari had an idea as to why the woman lay at the feet of the massive Dragon. She’d heard stories about Dragons taking virgins, keeping them as a sort of wife. What the Master did with the woman, she had no idea, but the girl seemed perfectly content to lay at his feet in the water, stretched out over the Master’s fingers, showing off a lot of her pale blue skin. Unlike the Protectors’ armor, her dress did not repel the water, and instead it clung, soaked, to her skin.

“Among other things,” Benava stated, pushing the air again. It hurt Nerithari’s teeth to stand this close and listen to him just for this short amount of time, she had no idea how the woman could lay at his feet all day.

“I seek nothing else,” Trust said, sounding confused. She looked over at him, but was unable to see his face from where she stood.

“Perhaps.” The single word sounded so unconvinced that even Nerithari wondered if Trust was holding back, of course, she didn’t know him, or his intentions beyond helping her, but maybe that was all the Master meant.

“It almost sounds like this mission is more for me than you,” Trust pointed out. The woman at Master Benava’s feet glared at him, her bright eyes darkening some. She propped herself up on an elbow against the Dragon’s wrist and started to run her free hand through her wet hair. Nerithari tried not to stare at her as her dress barely covered her chest and exposed her curved hip.

“I cannot send my own men to Galahebriel, or Falte will see it as a declaration of the war so desperately awaited. Galahebriel rests on the edge of my territory, and is in sight of the Trembling City,” the Master explained. Falte, the Trembling City, was ruled by the fire Dragon Master, Djaphen, almost Master Benava’s opposite in every way, save the treatment of his people, though Master Djaphen did enjoy coliseum fights, while Benava found the waste of life disgusting. It occurred to Nerithari that both Dragon Masters displayed their power in different ways, while Master Benava constantly poured water on his city, Master Djaphen suppressed his element, keeping the volcano the city was built on from fully erupting and making their continent, Rellor, uninhabitable. If a war between the two were to break out in full, the whole world would suffer as most of Iskara’s life called Rellor home.

Rellor was littered with cities controlled by Dragon Masters, especially the old ones. Stormever held the south white Falte had the west, their borders pressing up on each other. To the east, in the Reach –a mountain range filled with the tallest peaks on Iskara– hid High Throne, guarded by the air Dragon Master Fwore. Master Sinyier, the frost Dragon who settled Starsigh, ruled the north, a place full of snow and ice. And the center of it all were the Rift and the Trench. Two gashes across the face of Iskara, the Rift was an open wound across the surface, while the Trench crossed it at Rellor’s center. The Rift broke the crust, allowing access to the Underworld, but the Trench wasn’t deep enough. It wasn’t a natural occurrence either, it was a site of constant war, a place soldiers went to keep on fighting when they knew their time was near.

The Trench was a battleground where there were no sides, only constant fighting. No one was sure who actually fought there, only that when you went to the Trench, you never returned. Nerithari had never seen it, nor met someone that had, but knew it was said the veil between the real world and the after life was torn there, allowing the living to visit with the dead. But this also meant the dead could fight the living. Any soldier who fell in the Trench could just rise again to keep up the fight.

“You know the danger a war would pose,” Master Benava was saying, drawing Nerithari’s thoughts back in.

“I do,” Trust answered with a nod. “Is there any aid you can spare me before I depart for Galahebriel?”

“I will gift you a mage,” Master Benava answered almost before Trust was finished speaking. He, somehow, saw the question coming. “Take with you, my most loyal Protector.” He tilted his head to the side to look at a Protector that stood nearby in heavy robes. The whole of it was blue silk with pinks, yellows, and greens accenting in the trim and designs embroidered into the fabric. His hood, shaped like his Master’s head, was pulled forward, so Nerithari couldn’t see his face until he came forward and pushed it back.

He was a human man, standing tall despite his obviously frail frame. Nerithari watched him come forward, his robes parting the water. The Protector mage stopped in front of the demon cleric. He had a wrinkled face of deep olive skin with silver hair topping his head and running down his chin in wisps. His almond brown eyes were quick, taking in the Legionnaire cleric in front of him and then the dark elf girl. He did not look at Mithral kneeling behind Trust.

“Greetings,” the man said, bowing low and making a show of flourishing his arms. “I am Prime Protector Poe Pontinelli, at your service.”

His rank meant nothing to Nerithari, but she found his name very interesting. Trust, on the other hand, stiffened. “A Prime Protector accompanies us, but you cannot tell me what we should expect?” He didn’t sound upset, but concerned, as if something troublesome occurred to him, and it put Nerithari on edge to hear Trust sound… worried.

Master Benava lowered his head, slowly, and in such a way that Nerithari shrunk back and nearly stepped off of the rune, her heels splashed in the water. Even Prime Protector Pontinelli stepped back, as if to give his Master a wide enough berth to settle his head to the ground –or maybe to stay out of the way of an immanent attack. The massive Dragon let his head hang over them and she became aware of his utter size. His eyes alone were as wide as she could stretch her arms. It would take nothing for him to open his maw and swallow the three of them up like berries.

“You know all that you need to succeed,” Master Benava said, his voice almost reassuring. Having his head so close when he spoke nearly knocked Nerithari off her feet. And then the Dragon tilted his head ever so slightly to look at Nerithari.

She couldn’t tell if Trust relaxed when he was no longer under the intense gaze of the Master, but she did stiffen up and gasp for breath as a weight settled on her shoulders so great her knees trembled. She wondered if this was what Mithral had felt when he met Benava’s stare. It felt like staring into the sun but instead of burning her eyes, it weighed on her entire existence. She couldn’t breath while those massive golden orbs gazed at her. She was frozen, but under so much pressure she would break if she so much as blinked.

 _You will experience great loss at your own hands_ , a voice in her head echoed. It instantly made her eyes water. The pressure on her shot up to her head and engulfed her brain. _You will do much in your life, and you will witness change like none have seen in centuries._

The voice was Benava’s but instead of outward and moving the air, shaking her bones, it was only in her mind, and it was tearing her brain apart to hear it. The words were quick, just two sentences, and then he looked away, but in that time, so much pain passed through her, that when his gaze freed her, she collapsed to the ground and gasped, tears pouring from her eyes.

 _That_ had been what Mithral experienced. It had to be.

Trust stared up at Benava as the Dragon lifted his head. “What did you say to her?”

“It is not yours to know, Legionnaire,” Master Benava said, shifting his shoulders to push around his hoard of treasure. The woman stood up, stretched, and adjusted the thin fabric she wore that tried to slip off of her. Nerithari barely noticed her as she climbed up the Dragon’s arm to settle against the crook of his elbow. He continued speaking, seeming not to notice his woman’s movements. “You may have of the prisons what you wish, but the horsewoman is mine.”

Trust nodded and turned to Nerithari. She still stared at the floor, unable to stop crying. There was no more pain, but the memory of it was enough to keep her eyes burning with the tears. When Trust touched her elbow and helped her to her feet, she felt numb and only just realized what was happening. She didn’t look back up to Benava for fear of meeting his gaze again.

“Poe, take him to the dungeons to see our prison stock. I’m afraid you don’t have much to chose from, Legionnaire,” the Master said, almost sounding as if he were genuinely sorry. “The people of Stormever know the laws well, and obey them.”

“I understand, if you find anymore coming your way, though, I’ll take them, you know where I’ll be,” Trust said, and started to back up, off of the rune, guiding Nerithari along with him until she seemed to be able to walk without assistance.

Pontinelli came around, nudged Mithral with his foot, and then waved an arm to guide them out of the room. Trust helped Nerithari for the first few steps and then let her go so he could walk beside Pontinelli. He looked like he was going to say something, but the air moved again, Benava spoke one more time.

“Three more, son of Goremavir.”

That made Trust stiffen so much Nerithari blinked several times and dared a glance over her shoulder at the Dragon Master.

Goremavir was the god of death according to some religions. He was a living shadow that ruled the planes sinful souls ended up after death. According to Nerithari’s monotheistic belief, the one some called Goremavir was a fallen angel by the name of Ithreal. He took over the afterlife and decided he was a god among souls. Some worship him with other angels –most of them fallen in the eye of Nerithari’s religion– and some believe that he along with these other ‘gods’ had sons and daughters that walked Iskara.

Trust did fit the description of one of these Children of Goremavir, all of whom are said to take on demonic characteristics, but she was taught this happened when someone had committed a great sin. The sin manifested in the child and showed the family what had happened. She was taught from an early age not to hate the child for a sin it did not commit, and she’d lived true to that, treating Trust no different from she would if he were an elf or human.

But what Benava said sent a shiver down her spine. Son of Goremavir meant the fallen angel had fathered Trust directly.

Nerithari shuddered again and blinked away the mental image of a young elf woman and a demonic shadow. She had no right to judge Trust by what a Dragon Master called him. She wasn’t sure how to interpret his reaction to it, though.

None of them spoke until they were descending wet stairs into the dungeons. Mithral, of course, was the one to ask the first question of Trust.

“What did Benava mean by ‘two more’?” He seemed not to have the same reaction to the Son of Gormavir part.

“It’s personal,” Trust stated in a final tone, turning his gaze over his shoulder to look at Mithral long enough to make his point. Mithral lifted his hands and rolled his eyes. He seemed to have recovered from his meeting with the Master. Nerithari, on the other hand, still remembered the pain.

“In my presence, you will refer to our Master as such, or by one of his titles. You are not his friend, you have not earned the right to call him by his name,” Pontinelli cut in, when Trust started back down the hall toward the cells.

“What about you? Do you get to call him ‘Benava’?” Mithral asked, looking excited to have another victim.

Nerithari swatted his arm, but Pontinelli turned around and lifted his chin, stopping at the bottom of the steps to look up at Mithral who would have been around his height if he wouldn’t have had three or so steps on him. “I suggest you learn the art of speaking when spoken to. It’s not as simple as it sounds. For instance, I spoke to you, but your response displayed no inkling of understanding the words I’d said.”

“What’re you going to do, mage?” Mithral asked, resting a hand on his longsword. “Use some of that outlawed magic on me?”

“Mithral,” Nerithari warned, her voice low.

Trust came back, close enough to nearly put his head over Pontinelli’s shoulder. “You’re a couple words and a sword drawn away from losing my invitation, mate. I suggest you listen to your charge, who has more than once tried to reel you in.” Then his face tilted up to Nerithari. “Get a hold of your dog.” He turned back around before she could react.

Nerithari stiffened, embarrassment heating her cheeks. Pontinelli followed Trust, asking him if she and Mithral were members on the Legion. The she-elf focused all of her attention on her bodyguard and grabbed his shoulder to turn him around when he started forward to follow the other men.

His brow shot up and he looked up at her, but just barely as she was much shorter than him and only stood a step up. With cheeks still flushed, Nerithari glared heavily at Mithral like she never had before, at first, she saw a defiance flash in his eyes, but he blinked it away, his face relaxing into something more neutral, but that only made her more mad.

“How dare you. Have you forgotten your place so easily? What’s come over you?” She fired off the questions, not waiting for him to reply. She couldn’t resist grabbing his chin like a child when he turned those crimson eyes away from her. “Look at me, _qelwae_!”

His gaze snapped to hers and burned hot with anger, but she had met her end with him as well. She never used that word with him, she’d never needed to. A _qelwae_ was someone lesser than oneself, someone that was a servant, subordinate, and sometimes worth less. It could mean someone as low as a slave, and more recently, it had been used for those who were seen as a nuisance.

Nerithari had never used the word herself, and it had never occurred to her to call Mithral anything but his name. But since Fenre’s death, he’d been different, and it wasn’t the kind of different she could tolerate in this quantity.

“M’lady,” Mithral started, but she dropped her hand from his face and shook her head.

“Not another word. If either of them have to say something to you again about your behavior, I’m…” she hesitated. What would she do? What _could_ she do? Normally she could threaten to have Fenre beat some sense into him. It had only ever been a joke before now. She had never struck someone before but she considered it now. “Just… don’t, Mithral,” she decided on, glaring up at him.

For a flicker, she thought she saw something in his eyes, like amusement, but it was gone before she could react, and she decided to simply push passed him, shoving him out of the way so she could follow Trust and Pontinelli down to the dungeons.


	5. Chapter 4: Recruiting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Trust finds some recruits in the dungeons.

Had the dungeons not been built using black stone, it would not have been so dark. Unlike the levels above it, the dungeons only had a thin layer of water running over their surfaces. The water barely splashed as the group moved into the cell block with Benava’s only prisoners. The lighting here was plenty, but it was from blue flames hovering off the ends of damp torches, despite the brightness, the dark colors somehow didn’t yield for a well lit area.

Crashing waves became more audible here. It occurred to Trust they were closer to the ocean now, deep under Tempest Keep. The thunder from water smashing against stone rolled through the cells near rhythmically, and water levels in the space rose momentarily. It seemed the water was brought in from the ocean instead of sourced through Benava’s magic down here.

The halls were massive, probably large enough for the Dragon to walk through when they were first built, but now he wouldn’t even be able to get his head in the space.

Trust paused before following Poe into the row of cells. He looked down the hall, noting how many other cells there were, but that they were all empty. The Dragon wasn’t understating when he said there were few prisoners to choose from.

Poe stopped when he noticed Trust was no longer following him. Nerithari came up beside him, looking down the hall with him. Her face was twisted into one of irritation. She wasn’t very good at hiding her expressions, but that just made her easier to read. Seeing that Mithral was now a few steps behind her, standing with his hands behind his back and his gaze on the floor, the little elf had finally given him the kick he needed.

“I’ve never seen a jail so deserted,” Trust commented and then stepped around the colorful man. Poe looked out of place here, bright in the darkness, he almost gave off his own light.

“The people of Stormever know the laws,” he repeated what the Master had already told Trust.

“Yeah, I got that, mate,” Trust huffed, relaxing out of the formality that he’d put himself in when dealing with the Dragon Master and the Protectors outside. Poe and he were going to be traveling a long time together, and he wasn’t going to pretend to be something he wasn’t to save face. He was a Legionnaire, not an ass-kissing noble.

His thoughts immediately jumped to Nerithari. He was going to have to find somewhere safe for her before they made it to Galahebriel.

The first cell had a human woman in it. Her dirty blonde head was bowed, hiding her face. She was dressed in a rough spun tunic and pants, sitting barefoot on her dry bed with her toes drawing mindless designs in the shallow water pooling in her cell’s floor. There was an embroidered T above her heart, and Trust glanced down at her hands to see the tips of her fingers had been removed. A thief; handy with lockpicks by the state of her hands.

She lifted her head, seeming to notice that someone was watching her. Upon seeing the cleric, her eyes widened and she rushed to the bars so fast, Trust nearly missed the movement. The woman’s impact with the metal sang through the hinges, and Pontinelli lifted his hands in a way Trust knew was to prepare a spell if needed.

“Please, please you have to heal my hands,” she said desperately as she stuck them out at him. He looked at the blunted ends. Even her thumbs were missing the last joint. All but useless. His lips turned down.

“I can’t restore what’s lost, I can only heal what is there,” Trust spoke calmly, hoping not to excite her into a rage. The wild look in her blue eyes told him nothing short of him complying would have satisfied her, though.

“You’re a healer!” she screeched at the top of her lungs. “You’re a healer! You’re a healer!”

Trust stepped away and Poe spun his hands in an intricate design before whispering a soft word. His hand glowed softly, and then the woman was silenced. She didn’t stop what she was doing, but no more sound came out of her cell. She beat against the metal, but it happened in a void. Trust watched, looked at the mage, and then nodded once, moving on to the next cell as the woman threw herself into a rage against the bars.

Nerithari hesitated there, watching the woman with wide eyes before finally moving forward.

“Got that one rightly worked up, didn’t you,” a deep, accented voice touched Trust’s pointed ear. He was going toward the cell of an orc sitting cross-legged on the floor, but the voice came from behind him. He turned to see a dwarf leaning against the wall of his cell, looking at the woman bloodying herself in her fit. “Don’t see many Legionnaires in the dungeons of a Dragon Master, not unless you be looking for recruits.”

Trust smirked and nodded to the dwarf. “And you are, mate?”

“The best recruit you’ll find in this here jail. Bron Goldbeard, at your service.” He bowed, though it was obviously a mockery of the action. “I’m here for starting fights, and being unstoppable.”

“That so?” Trust crossed his arms, smiling at the dwarf in the burlap tunic. He was a short, stout thing, as most of his people were, but not an ounce of fat rested on this man’s body. He had black hair yet to be touched by age, pulled back and tied behind his head, it didn’t get much farther than the leader band. His brown eyes were set deep under thick, but relatively tame brows for a dwarf. His beard was long, falling down to his crotch at its longest point, though it was braided into several sections, the thickest in the center, with thinner, shorter ones mirroring either side. His mustache had grown to be braided into it as well, and just as with the braids, it was adorned with decorative stone beads –the only thing of value that hadn’t been stripped of him, because not even a Dragon Master takes stone from a dwarf.

“Aye, do you need a show to believe me?”

“No,” Trust said with a shake of his head. “If you prove yourself in the trials I set before you, you’ll become a Legionnaire for life. But if you fail… well, you won’t be around to worry about that.” The cleric turned to the mage and nodded toward the cell as the dwarf started to speak.

“Good, I wouldn’t have it any other way, devil.”

“Sir,” Trust quickly corrected the shorter man. “Legion Captain, or Trust if we get to becoming friends. We are an army, not a band of mercenaries or bandits.”

“Aye, aye, I meant no offense, cap’n,” the dwarf quickly spoke before Trust could go on. He shook his hands to show his surrender.

Satisfied, Trust returned to the orc as the mage released the dwarf and put magic shackles on his wrists. “Until we leave the castle, you’re still a prisoner,” Poe explained, but no complaint beyond a grunt came from the dwarf.

The orc ended up ignoring any attempt to speak to him. He seemed content to sit in his cell, meditating on the crimes he’d done. Two more humans resided beyond him, both men, and both more than willing to turn their back on crime if it got them out of the cells of the Dragon Master. One was older, in his forties, but a smith who promised he only stole his rival’s lucky hammer because he wanted to throw him off, he didn’t realize the hammer was _real_ gold and that the other smith wasn’t kidding about getting business from the Dragon Master. His name was John, and he had the most forgettable face Trust had ever seen. He allowed the man along not for the idea of him becoming a fighter, but because he was a smith who could help them with their arms and armor. The other human was a younger man of seventeen, with two left feet and a strong bow arm. Trust could see by the muscle difference in his left arm. As long as he could be taught, he would work well in the Legion among the archers. Trust had only just turned away when the boy –Brandon, though he admitted to being called Armstrong amongst his friends– tripped out of his cell, getting a laugh from Bron and John. Apparently, he’d tripped into a Protector, causing the man to fall over the cliffs into the sea below. Trust would have his work cut out for him with that boy.

The next cell had a halfling woman waiting at the gate. “I’m ready to join up,” she said, matter-of-factly. She was a short thing, even for her kind, standing only halfway up Trust’s thigh with proportional limbs and a soft curve to her otherwise rectangular shape. She’d made some adjustments to the rough spun tunic given her, displaying her tight belly but covering her soft chest, her hips wouldn’t have been able to hold up her skirt if it wasn’t for the curve of her rear. She used the left over fabric that she’d taken from the bottom of her tunic and the end of what once were pants, to make a pair of boot like wrappings that went right up to her knees. Her blonde hair wasn’t very dirty, telling Trust she’d not been here long. Her relatively clean face was narrow with a round jaw, framed by her shoulder length hair, and bore hazel green eyes that blazed in the soft light of the dungeon. Not the last thing he noticed, but the most telling about her, though, was the thick godstone shackle around her neck.

Trust could tell by the state of her nails she’d been clawing at it, trying to get it off, but even if she managed to, her magic would be nullified by the glyphs in the cell around her. Not godstone itself –otherwise Pontinelli’s magic would be stifled– but runes to keep prisoners from practicing the arcane arts while waiting to be Branded. Of course, if they didn’t want the Brand, the shackle could always be made permanent.

It required a simple surgery a Dragon Master would do themselves as godstone did not hinder a Dragon unless it was in mass quantities. In the operation, a bone of the recipient is replace with a perfectly carved stone replica. It is a dangerous process, but Trust had met several mages that took it over Branding. It was next to impossible to have the stone-bone removed as without the care of a Dragon’s magic to keep the patient from moving, waking, bleeding out, or getting infected, the mage could die before the surgery finished. What made it more difficult still, was the inability to know which bone was replaced, as no scars were left after the operation, and only the Dragon and the accompanying Protectors knew which was swapped.

“What do you know of the Legion?” Trust asked, crossing his arms as he looked down at her. Already he knew what her plan was.

“You let mages in your order without shackles or Brands,” she answered confidently, making obvious her reason for wanting to join.

“Anything else?”

“Just what maids gossip.” She rolled her shoulders and mirrored his crossed arms. “You fight for who gives you the coin. You owe no one but your employer loyalty, and that only lasts as long as the coin comes in.”

Trust’s nose twitched. “It’s not that simple.” He started on to the next cell, disinterested in someone who viewed his order in such a light.

“Wait!” The woman reached through her bars. She could _almost_ fit between them if it weren’t for the width of her head and chest. “Wait, I meant no offense, sir. I just… I need out of here, I can’t be Branded.”

“Then take the shackle,” Trust growled, looking down at her with burning eyes. The men behind him stood quietly, no one even shifting their weight for fear of making a noise.

“I… can’t,” she breathed and hung her head. “I am a druid, I belong in the woods, among the trees, with my magic, sir,” she spoke slowly and only looked up when Trust didn’t reply. “If I pledge myself to Benava, I’ll never see the sun again, not through the clouds. And if I’m shackled… I’ll never….” She swallowed hard against a lump in her throat. Trust ignored the tears welling up in her eyes. She was a good actress, she almost convinced him.

“You can’t play me, mate, I’ve seen too much to be fooled by those.” He gestured to her tears. Before he could walk away again, she cleared her throat and wiped her face.

“Fine, fine, fine, just stop,” she snarled and grabbed ahold of the bar in front of her with her tiny fist. “I want freedom. I want to practice my magic without fearing a Dragon’s wrath, and I want food in my belly.”

Trust looked down at her, fiery eyes narrow. “I cannot promise food in your belly.”

A smirk played on her lips and she nodded her understanding. “But I can keep my magic with you?”

“Until you prove you can’t be trusted with it.”

“I’m Batina,” she introduced herself, meeting his eyes. “Batina Belfry.”

Trust nodded and gestured for Poe to free her and he went to the last of the cells. In it was a beastfolk, a horsewoman. She was standing at the gate of her cell with a hand on the bar to show Trust the odd fingers she had with the last joint ending with hoof like tips. Her body looked humanoid, but her legs were that of a mare, bent in an odd way for a biped. Her tail swatted out behind her, and she shook her long neck when he approached, tossing her horse head so that her mane flipped to plaster to the other side of her damp neck. Her fur was white with splotches of brown splattered across her as if a careless painter spilled it on her. Her eyes were bright, pale blue, and focused on him as long as he was in sight.

She didn’t speak, so Trust did. “What crime put you here?” Her tunic was without a stamp, unlike the others, even the halfling’s had an arcane symbol –M stood for murderer, as was stamped on Armstrong’s.

The horsewoman watched him for a moment, and then let her gaze fall on those behind him. “Not my crime,” she said with a thick accent. Her full lips moved around the unfamiliar words deliberately, as if she were trying to recall old teachings. “I possess Blood of Old Chiefs.”

Trust’s brows arched in genuine surprise. “You mean the Old Kings?” he clarified.

“Yes,” she almost spat the word as her lips struggled with it. “My people have chiefs, not kings.”

Trust nodded, “But the Chiefs and Kings worked together, participated in the same pact.”

“I know this,” she grunted, her mouth unable to get the ‘th’ out correctly.

Nerithari came up, seemingly interested in the conversation. “What did she do?”

Trust glanced over at the young dark elf as the horsewoman tilted her head to look at the newcomer. “She has Old Kings’ blood,” Trust said and he saw her brows draw together in a way he knew to be confusion. “The Old Kings were the mortal rulers of Iskara before the Dragons, back when Mercara still floated in the sky and humans hadn’t yet come to Iskara. Before the dark elves crawled out of the Rift, before the Trench scarred the land….” He looked at the woman in the cell. “Back then, every city ruled itself, and alliances were what won wars. It used to be if the people didn’t like their ruler, they could defy them, rise up and overturn the monarch. But the Dragons came, took over, and since have smothered any rebellion that even thinks of starting up.”

Poe came forward then, his face passive, but his steps determined. “The Dragon Masters have brought the longest lasting peace to the world that Iskara has _ever_ seen. Tens of thousands of years without wars between territories…”

“What about the Trench?” Bron asked, speaking up with a smile. “Nothing like that was around before the Masters, wasn’t it?”

“So she’s descendant from rulers from thousands of years ago, what does that matter?” Nerithari cut in before Poe could speak.

“When the Dragons birthed from the tears in the Neverscape –where all magic is sourced– they were little more than horse sized beasts with the ability to speak. No one took them as a serious threat because no one knew what they planned to do. Eventually they grew larger than even Iskara’s largest lizards, and it became apparent that they could only be defeated by magic. When they attacked mortal cities, took over the thrones, the unskilled mortal mages were no match. Before there were Dragons in Iskara, there was no magic, so they were forced to use weapons they had little training with against masters,” Trust explained, looking back at Nerithari.

“You skew history, the Masters were simply bringing peace to the world. The Old Kings were constantly at war with themselves, they rarely went a year without sending their armies out.” Poe tried to dismiss them with a hand. Trust snorted.

“The Old Kings knew they were going to lose the war, kingdoms were falling to Dragons in was they’d never fallen to mortals, and the Dragons were amassing devote followers,” Trust continued. Then he gestured to the horsewoman. “The Old Kings, with the help of a single Dragon–”

“A traitor to his kind,” Poe supplied.

“–sympathetic to their plight, blessed their blood to forever be untouched by magic. No spell, of harm or aid, could touch one with the Blood of the Old Kings. And with that, came immunity to the Brand, leaving all descendants of the past rulers to retain the entirety of their free will.”

“Those who are Branded have free will,” Poe protested immediately, his expression darkening.

“Save for one choice, mate,” Trust corrected him, “you can’t act against your Master.” Before Poe could say anything else, the cleric turned to the woman in the cell. “I cannot bring you with me,” Trust stated lowly. He could take mages, and he could take criminals that actually did something wrong. But someone with the Blood was beyond even the Legion’s reach. Every once in a while, a soldier would be discovered to have the Blood, and the Legion would try to hide it, but it’s hard to keep more than one mouth shut, and a Dragon Master always found out. There was nothing Trust could do for this woman.

“I know this,” she said, sounding unafraid.

She looked like a strong warrior, a formidable opponent. “What’s your name?”

“J’well et novEshish,” she answered with a lift of her head. No doubt it was a noble name.

“It means ‘Jewel ofthe Dreamscape,’” Poe explained, confirming Trust’s suspicions.

“I am last of my family. When I die, so does my line.” For some reason, that thought depressed Trust.

He bowed his head. “I’m sorry.”

She snorted, and almost laughed. “Do not pity me, Legionnaire.”

“We should leave now, Captain,” Poe said suddenly. Trust glanced back at the mage and then to J’well. He wondered how she was found out, when she learned that she had the Blood, and if she put up a fight when they came to take her.

Finally, Trust nodded once. “Peace to you, and your soul. May you find your tribe in the Shadowscape.”

“Gormavir permitted,” she said and lifted her head, ending the prayer. He noticed her gaze on his chest and realized his amulet must be out. He found it unlikely she actually believed in his deity, but appreciated the recognition nonetheless.

Poe led the way out of the dungeon, and as Trust followed behind his new recruits, he ignored their chatter and questions to think about the woman back there.

It took him a second to realize that Nerithari had asked him a question. He glanced at her, and she repeated, “I just don’t get it. If someone has the Old Kings’ Blood, they aren’t dangerous to a Dragon Master. So why are they afraid of them?”

She spoke quietly, obviously she didn’t want Poe’s answer. She looked at Trust expectantly. He stopped moving, taking a moment to look at her. Nerithari Morvael was probably the most innocent person he’d met in a long time. She looked like a maiden from the songs with her wide, doe-like eyes and delicate frame. She gazed at him with the kind of trust none before her had laid in him. The way she saw it, she depended on him to survive.

And he would have to lie to her.

“They’re just afraid,” he started, not wanting her to get suspicious of his hesitation, “of what’s different from them. Those with Old Kings’ Blood can defy them and their magic, and that can end up being worse than real magic.”

“You said that the Neverscape was the source of all magic,” Nerithari said and started walking, following the others up the stairs. “But I’d heard about the magic that came before the Dragons.”

Not as innocent as he thought. Trust nodded and rolled his shoulders, preparing for the climb up the stairs back to the surface of the city. “The Neverscape is the source of all light magic,” Trust admitted and smiled a little to himself, hoping she didn’t look back to see him. “So, but some believe there are other kinds of magic, like the magic that created the Old Kings’ Blood. It has to be magic that makes them immune to other magic, right?” At that she turned around and tilted her head at him. He lifted a brow at her and she nodded once, her own white eyebrows knitting together in thought as she considered this.

The Lord Protector centaur that had been at the front of the keep before was still there when they emerged from the dungeons and made to exit the grounds. At the highest rank a Protector can achieve, the centaur was not only impressive in title but in armor, decorated in elaborate plates that covered him to the point that Trust couldn’t tell what color his skin or fur was. He spoke through the Benava shaped helm he wore, shifted his liquid spear in hand, ready at all times to use it if he must.

“You did not take all the stock in the dungeons,” the Lord Protector observed. Poe was pointedly ignoring the other Protector in favor of unlocking the shackles that bound the prisoners. Trust strode to the front of the group, his eyes on the druid to make sure she didn’t try to slip away once her magic was returned to her.

“Some are not fit for the Legion,” Trust said.

“Yet, you take prisoners nonetheless,” the Lord Protector said, his voice obviously condescending.

Trust’s blazing eyes narrowed and the swirling color in them calmed, slowing down as he focused on the Protector. “Hate to waste useful lives.”

The Protector grunted and shifted back a few steps, allowing the group to pass by him in a way to keep him from smelling the more potent ones.

Trust ignored the centaur and motioned for the recruits to head down the path to the High Road. “It’ll be a three days’ march to Galahebriel from here, recruits. We’ll make a quick stop at the smithy to get you traveling gear, and then we’ll be on our way,” Trust announced. They all nodded, some more interested in his words than others.

“What about Mithral and me?” Nerithari asked as she followed behind the cleric down the steps.

Trust glanced over his shoulder at the bodyguard. He’d been pleasantly quiet since he mentioned to Nerithari the boy could cost her Trust’s protection. He wished he didn’t have to say things like that, but sometimes it was the only way to get someone to wake up.

Trust realized there was only one way that he could truly continue to protect Nerithari, and it did not involve her following him aimlessly along.

“I can offer you a place in the Legion, Lady Morvael,” Trust said, and watched her expression go blank, not expecting that response. “It is up to you on whether or not you accept, but I will add that I cannot promise your safety beyond the walls of Stormever, and as I said before, the life I live is not one of luxury and many do not look on this order with the respect it deserves.”

“M’lady,” Mithral objected, his face twisted in disgust.

Nerithari lifted a hand, attempting to silence him, he stepped forward, coming closer to her, black eyebrows screwed together. Before he spoke, she turned her mismatched eyes up to him, wide and angry. Trust watched the he-elf, saw the disgust shift to anger and then disappear when he blinked and stepped back, bowing his head to concede to his charge. Nerithari didn’t seem to notice, if she did, she didn’t let on.

“You’ll train me to defend myself?” she asked. “I don’t know how to do much of anything now.”

Trust nodded before she finished speaking. “It is apart of my job, as your recruiter, to make sure you can at least defend yourself, and hopefully be an asset to the Cell you’re assigned to.”

“I won’t stay with you?” She looked uncomfortable with the idea but the fact of the matter was, he couldn’t promise any of them would stay under his command after training, so he simply shrugged. This seemed to be enough for her and she looked over at Mithral. “I would like you to join with me as well.”

The elf’s nose wrinkled in response. “I serve your family, m’lady.”

“And I am all that’s left,” she pointed out. “I won’t force you, but if you do not join the Legion with me, then… you’re free to go,” Nerithari added, lifting her chin. This caught him off guard.

Mithral seemed to consider this. His crimson eyes rolled over to look at Trust, but the cleric simply stared back, passive. He knew the man could fight, and that would be an asset, but Trust didn’t like the elf. He didn’t like the idea of the elf being one of the men he was supposed to trust to have his back.

“Do I have to decide now?” Mithral finally asked, addressing Trust.

“No, I suppose you don’t.”

Joining the Legion was usually a choice made when the alternative was worse –jail, a sad or boring life, perhaps even death. Some joined and had options, but few had to take much time to decide. It wasn’t a choice that everyone was happy to make. Once officially inducted, at the beginning of training, there was no changing your mind, and Trust had to accept that Mithral may only just now have options, and before deciding to follow his charge into an outfit that he obviously didn’t care for, he wanted to consider the other possible outcomes of his life. It was a rare opportunity, and it occurred to him, he should make sure Nerithari considered her options as well, before committing to this and regretting it because she felt like she had no other option.

“Lady Morvael,” Trust turned back to her. “You should take time to think about it as well. When training begins, you will not be allowed to leave without being considered a deserter. The punishment is immediate death. And I would hate for you to regret this decision,” he added, meeting her mismatched eyes.

“I don’t need time to think about it,” she said with a sigh. “I have nothing else. My family is dead, and I’m on the run. I could be killed at any moment, even with Mithral protecting me.” She deflated and swallowed hard against a lump in her throat. “I can’t return home… I will probably never see Denerian again.” Trust could see the resignation in her eye, like the realization came to her as she said the words.

“If you decide to join the Legion,” Trust warned, “you will not be able to change your mind later. Once training begins, you’re sworn in and if you regret your decision….” He let the sentence trail off.”

Nerithari nodded. “I understand, Trust.”

Mithral touched her shoulder. She looked at him but instead of the previous expressions he’d given, his red eyes were soft and he lowered his voice to say, “Think of your family, m’lady. You’re throwing everything they fought for away by joining them….”

Nerithari’s face softened and Trust saw the pain in her eyes as she thought about those words. She looked up at Trust. “Can I have a moment?”

He gave her a nod and backed away, letting her speak with Mithral alone. The others had paused, waiting for him, and Trust took a moment to look over each of them. Bron grinned up at him, ready, while Armstrong and John looked indifferent. Batina had her arms crossed and stood with her back to Poe. Trust could tell she was plotting her escape, but she hadn’t tried for it yet.

“Where we off to, cap’n?” Bron asked.

“The smith,” Trust replied and started down the High Road.

He checked over his shoulder to see if Nerithari and Mithral would follow. The she-elf noticed the group moving, and ended the conversation. She turned her back on the bodyguard, and Mithral tailed behind her, he didn’t look happy.


	6. Chapter 5: Joining

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Butting heads and taking oaths.

Trust led the new recruits to an inexpensive smith near the front gates that had enough wares for all of them. The others had already entered the store and were looking at different weights of armor when Nerithari stepped in out of the drizzle.

Trust remained by the entrance, when she came in, Pontinelli stopped speaking. She met his stare and realized she was the reason, so she continued by him, throwing a glance at Trust who she wasn’t sure if he was looking at her or Poe. He stood with his arms crossed over his wide chest, and while he stood still, she noticed his tail twitching down near the ground behind him.

Nerithari turned away from them when Pontinelli threw another glance her way, speaking softly now. She didn’t like being talked about so obviously, but she wasn’t going to say anything. Until she took over her parents’ business, she had been used to people talking to her parents about her even while she was in the room. It occurred to her that when she became a recruit, she would be on the same level as the others in this room. She would lose the prestige she had in Denerian, she would lose the association she had with her family and all that it still owned.

Mithral was quick to point this out, to mention her family would have wanted her to continue the fight for Denerian. But she remembered the flames burning down her family home, and the bodies of the staff and guards lining the halls while Fenre and Mithral guided her out.

She remembered that even when she followed her father’s final instructions to find his contact in Stormever, she almost died and she lost the last person that had known her for her entire life.

Tears welled up in Nerithari’s eyes as she thought about her last twenty-four hours. This time yesterday she had been riding her horse before dinner with her family. When they fled the homestead, they’d taken horses, but Fenre and she shared hers. Upon reaching Stormever, they stabled them at the front entrance with the promise to the horse-master, if they didn’t return by the following evening, the horses were his. They didn’t have the expectation to need them, but Fenre had insisted they have the backup.

Now it seemed that the backup had been for him to be able to escape after he had successfully taken her out. She supposed the only reason she made it out of her home was because Mithral found her just after Fenre had discovered her crying over her father’s body.

Nerithari sniffed hard through her nose and straightened up, biting her lip in determination. She wouldn’t cry over Fenre again. Not after his betrayal.

John the Smith was inspecting a leather cuirass, drawing Nerithari’s attention away from her thoughts. She didn’t know the first thing about armor, her family only dealt in cloth and leather for fashion and everyday wear, even work, but not protection. She knew the basics of what would be needed, but she had no idea what quality looked like. So she came up to his side and smiled at him when he glanced over at her.

John was a human of under six feet, average build, brown hair, mustache, and eyes, with skin kissed by fire rather than sun. He wasn’t handsome, at least to Nerithari, but he wasn’t ugly, and he seemed neither old nor young. Humans, Nerithari was far more well acquainted with, but she also knew out of all of the peoples of Iskara, the humans were the most diverse and one never knew what the human would be like until they were met.

“Looking for something light or heavy, m’lady?” John asked. He looked at her, and for a moment she thought he was appreciating her, but she realized he was probably taking in her size as he immediately turned back to the armor he was looking at and switched to a set that was significantly smaller.

“I have no idea. I’ve never… fought before, so I don’t…” she let the sentence drift off and he nodded. Mithral had remained outside, otherwise she’d ask him his preferences in leather as well, but she was still angry with him. Since Fenre, he’d been different, he’d questioned her more and she was wondering if it had been Fenre that kept him in his place, or if now that she’d nearly died, he’d suddenly become more protective of her and this was just his way of showing it. Fenre would often question the intentions of others in her presence, but he had more tact than Mithral seemed to. He would also never openly disregard a command from her or defy her while others were watching.

“Best to start off with something light then, maybe even just a sturdy cloth,” John was saying, not seeming to notice her attention wasn’t totally on him. “Could use some leather to test the feel, start off with boots and bracers.”

“That’s probably a good idea,” she admitted and picked up a leather armguard. John pointed out the stitch and she agreed it looked strong, though it wasn’t attractively done. She told him what her family did and he recited his business’s details, before he was imprisoned.

Brandon came over to look at better bracers as well. He’d already picked out a nice thick chest piece and boots, now he wanted to replace the only piece of armor he said he’d ever owned as his armguards were old and cracked. “The leather here is amazing,” he raved and picked up a thicker set of bracers than Nerithari would have gone for. He put them on, settling them perfectly on his forearms. “The quality is so much better than any I’d ever be able to afford.”

“Well, Armstrong, that’s why the Legion’s payin’ for it,” Bron said, coming up donned in new plate. While Brandon was an archer and built much like a deer, Bron was stout, built like a boar and black as one in hair. He smiled at her, giving her a wink when she noticed. Her cheeks flushed and she immediately turned back to the leather John had picked out for her.

“Why do they call you ‘Armstrong’?” Nerithari asked, glancing up at Brandon. He was around the same height as John, though a little taller and much younger, Nerithari was sure she had some years on him even. His young face was spotted with acne and scars, and as they spoke, he often touched his face and picked at scabs.

“I’m good with a bow,” he said and then lifted his arms for her to see them side by side and she realized the left was significantly thicker. This happened in good bowmen because of the heavy draw on the bow forcing them to build up muscle in only the one arm. “I could wrestle all of my friends down with this arm,” he added with a crooked smile.

Bron jumped on that, but as the men started to mess around, she noticed the halfling woman alone. Nerithari glanced at Trust and Pontinelli near the front door, still talking in hushed whispers, and she decided speak with the other woman.

As Nerithari approached her, Batina stiffened and put her back very obviously toward her. She wasn’t sure why, so she rounded the table of crossbow bolts the halfling woman was looking at, and tried to make eye contact.

Batina stood no taller than the table they were looking at, but there were many steps situated around the store to accompany those who were shorter, even Bron would have to stretch to see the tops of many of the display cases. But Batina didn’t seem to have the same carefree attitude that the dwarf did.

As Nerithari opened her mouth to speak, the smaller woman lifted a hand. “Save it. We aren’t going to be friends, and this is going to be the last conversation we have.” Her tone was final, but that was something Nerithari was prepared to deal with. She’d had to hold conversations with people who thought they knew what was going to happen. And she had made them realize they didn’t.

But she had no idea where this was coming from, so she expressed her confusion by saying, “Excuse me?”

Batina glanced up at Nerithari, her green eyes blazed bright. “Really?” she asked.

“What have I done to you?” Nerithari asked, her brows drawing together.

Batina laughed out loud, and it drew the attention of everyone in the shop. “You’re kidding right?” When Nerithari narrowed her eyes at the other woman, she only smiled wider, like she had won something. “How dense are you that you would speak to me at all? And then to act like nothing has ever happened to make me hate you,” she laughed again, finding this situation even funnier.

Then it occurred to Nerithari what was happening. It wasn’t personal. It was something Nerithari had no control over in fact. Realization must have been clear on her face, because the woman laughed at her again, this time pointing at her and holding her chest as if it hurt. Nerithari tried to make herself heard over the cackles, “My colony outlawed slavery centuries ago. There are hundreds of prospering halflings in Denerian.”

Batina’s laugh cut off and her face darkened as she glared at Nerithari. “One city. While the whole Underworld trades my people like cattle.”

Nerithari glared back. “My colony took to the surface and when they met your people, saw how you lived, they came to realize their mistake and corrected it. I cannot speak for the rest of my people–”

“You can simply not speak to me, though,” Batina said, her smile sending a shiver down Nerithari’s spine. At that, the halfling woman turned around and climbed off her step to push past the trio of men staring at them. When she got to Trust and Pontinelli by the door, Nerithari realized that all eyes were truly on her and she felt her cheeks heat up. She swallowed and looked away, never more embarrassed in her life.

She couldn’t believe she’d been confronted like that when she herself had never had slaves and her family hadn’t in generations.

Someone came up to her side and she glanced up to see it was Trust. He radiated a heat she came to realize even before turning around to face him. “I didn’t do anything wrong,” she told him and he shrugged.

“It doesn’t matter. As long as you don’t attack each other and follow my orders, I don’t need you to be friends,” he said and she crossed her arms involuntarily. He noted the movement, but didn’t say anything about it, instead he tilted his head toward the armor pieces she’d picked up. “Are you joining us then?”

“Mithral thinks I’m throwing my life away,” she said and deflated some. “I don’t know what the right choice is.”

“I can’t tell you that,” he said and cocked his head. “I can tell you that Poe believes you have magic, and is interested in teaching you.”

Nerithari stiffened, her eyes flashing wide. “What?”

He lifted his chin, like he was confirming a thought, and then nodded. “I believe Master Benava foresaw magic use in you. Telling me you will either join the Legion or the Protectors.”

The words hit her so hard she had to hold onto the table to keep herself up.

 _Magic_. Magic meant she would be forced to do just as Trust said, or be Shackled like Batina was going to be. The thought made her sick even though she had never cast a spell.

Branding… wasn’t much better.

Trust waited for her to sort out her thoughts, removing the amulet from his neck to set it on the nearby table. When she looked up at him, he rested a hand on her shoulder and a wave of calm drifted over her.

“I’ve never used magic,” she told him. “Maybe they’re mistaken.”

Trust smirked and squeezed her shoulder. She glanced at his hand, the heavy gauntlet had a faint red glow about it. He was using magic to calm her down. She swallowed hard when he started speaking. “There isn’t a mistake, I can sense the magic too, you just aren’t aware of it yet.” Then he released her and she felt the calm fade some. He picked up his amulet, and she looked at it while he put it back on. It was an amulet with an intricate carving of a skeletal handing holding a bleeding heart. Instead of blood, spiked vines flowed from the organ and wrapped around the bone forearm. Nerithari knew the image to be Goremavir’s seal, but Trust’s amulet had small runes carved into each of the fingers, and three of them glowed faintly with a dark purple light.

As a cleric, he would be gifted his magic from a deity, and since it seemed Goremavir was his lord. She remembered Master Benava’s words. _Son of Goremavir_. He believed in and worshiped Goremavir, and she assumed this meant he also believed his father was the fallen angel.

She didn’t say anything about her thoughts, though, and opted to instead say, “How do I… produce magic?”

Trust’s brows screwed, pulling together, forced to move around the horns planted in his forehead. He glanced over his shoulder at Pontinelli. “I’ve never trained someone who didn’t know they had magic, normally my recruits are already acquainted with the gift or stumble upon it after training and are able to call on it at will. Poe might know more about getting started.”

Nerithari nodded and shifted where she stood. “I don’t want to be Branded.”

Trust glanced back at her, his expression passive, but his campfire eyes were kind. “I understand. There is the option to be Shackled, since you’ve never known the magic you have, it is an option that would not change your life.”

Despite his words, he didn’t sound convinced of this.

A crash came from a suit of armor hitting the ground and Nerithari jumped, startled. Trust spun around and reached for his mace but relaxed when he saw that it was just Brandon trying to take down a helmet from a display and had toppled the whole thing. The shop keeper came out shouting and Nerithari stifled a laugh as the boy blushed bright and scrambled to pick up the fallen armor.

Bron laughed out loud and so did John. Nerithari watched Trust go over to pay for the damages and the armor that had been picked out so they could leave. She noticed Batina by the door, eyes locked on Pontinelli. The Prime Protector was waving a hand, the tips of his fingers glowing with pale gold light.

The armor began to mend itself, faint tendrils of light pulling it together, pushing out the dents. Pontinelli said some words, his voice soft and he strode closer. His fingers shifted around, as if he were the one actually touching the armor.

Nerithari’s lips parted in surprise and then she saw movement out of the corner of her eye.

Batina darted out the front door of the shop.

Nerithari gasped. She knew what the halfling’s choice meant for her. Without another thought, Nerithari raced after her, throwing herself toward the door without another sound.

Outside the rain poured down in sheets, ever changing and unpredictable. Batina was running for the High Gate, the main entrance of Stormever and the one that the High Road used. She wasn’t just running, though, she was moving with the speed of a wolf, or a bird.

Nerithari saw her arms lift and shift in a circle, and the haze of color around the woman’s legs as her magic pushed her along faster.

There was no way that Nerithari could reach her, but she ran after her anyway.

The use of magic triggered the attention of the nearby Protectors. A few soldiers turned their heads to follow her, but they didn’t otherwise react. It wasn’t until they reached for horns that Nerithari realized they weren’t going to be the ones to go after her.

The low hum of at least ten horns thrummed ahead and Nerithari raced passed the soldiers, looking for anyway to catch up to her, to help her, to save her from what was about to happen.

The High Gate moaned as the heavy, drenched steel moved, closing the halfling’s exit. She was so close to it, she might make it, but Nerithari wouldn’t.

A Protector mage appeared, gliding through the rain like an arrow, glowing a brilliant shade of gold as they tried to cut off Batina at the gate.

The two collided. A burst of light and force shot out, throwing Nerithari off of her feet. Screams sounded as citizens realized what was happening and they were thrown into shopfronts and to the cobblestone.

Nerithari blinked a few times before she was able to see where she’d landed. A very familiar voice was yelling nearby.

“…realize how stupid you were,” Trust snarled, his thundering voice low.

Getting to her feet, she was able to see Trust standing over Batina. The halfling woman knelt before him, her wrists bound with magic light. The Protector mage that had caught her stood beside her, tall and ready. He was a massive bullman, horns sprouted out from his head and climbed up toward the sky at a harsh angle. His fur was a mix of white and pale brown, though grey streaked his face. His robes were like all the other mage Protectors’ and the hood he had rested in artful sections between his horns to lay over his head, and protect him from the rain pouring down from the sky.

“I wasn’t running away!” Batina lied angrily. She threw her arms in irritation.

Nerithari stepped closer and cleared her throat. “She wasn’t. She was showing me her magic.”

Everyone looked at her then and Nerithari tried not to shy away or blush. She looked dead into Trust’s face and when he tilted his head at her she held her ground. The demidemon turned his gaze over to the halfling who gaped at Nerithari until she realized she was being watched. Then she nodded, too much, and looked up at Trust.

“Yeah! She said she had never seen druid magic before. So I showed her _Spirit of the Eagle_ ,” Batina said quickly. “It gives me the speed of a bird and allows me to walk through the air for a short amount of time.”

Trust huffed, his expression dark and unreadable as he looked back over at Nerithari who nodded. The Protector standing over Batina’s shoulder shorted through his nose and lifted his chin at Trust.

“She is yours to punish, Legionnaire,” he said and bowed his head. With a flourish of his hand, he dismissed his spell and the light holding Batina’s hands faded.

The High Gate opened and those around the entrance went back to what they were doing.

Trust glared down at Batina. Nerithari came closer to say something else, but she stopped when Trust knelt down in front of the halfling.

Batina bowed her head as if expecting a strike, but Trust simply put his lips near her ear and hissed some words that Nerithari could only imagine. By the sounds he made, she knew he wasn’t happy, and the words were most likely a threat.

Nerithari felt a shiver run down her spine, and when he stood up and turned on her, she stiffened, feeling the color leave her face.

Trust came to stand in front of her, an inch from her face.

“Never lie to me again,” he said, his voice cold.

Her mouth went dry and she didn’t trust her voice so she just nodded once and he stepped around her, going back to get the group they’d left at the shop. Nerithari looked down at Batina who still kneeled on the ground. She was breathing heavily, and Nerithari couldn’t tell, but she thought she might be crying.

“Let’s go,” Nerithari whispered and offered a hand to the other woman.

Batina looked at the offer and sniffed hard, rubbing her face. She stood up without accepting the help and cleared her throat. “I would have been fine without you.”

“Sure,” Nerithari said, trying not to take offense.

Batina glanced up at her, hazel eyes red rimmed, then she looked beyond Nerithari. She shook her head and crossed her arms. Trust returned with the others in tow. He gave Nerithari and Batina a meaningful look, and continued on toward the High Gate.

Mithral came up to Nerithari’s side and she stared up at him in surprise. “So you’re joining?”

“Have to keep an eye on you, don’t I?” He smiled some at her, reminding her of how he had been before. She smiled back and wrapped an arm around him.

“I’m happy you’re coming, Mithral.”

Outside the gate, Nerithari and Mithral told Trust about their horses, and he agreed they would be helpful and to get them from the stable.

When Nerithari returned to the group waiting in a clearing beside the High Road leading west, Trust didn’t say anything as Nerithari and Mithral joined the others in a semicircle, facing him as he stood near the road. The cleric took a moment, his eyes closed for a long time it seemed as an uncomfortable silence fell on the group. Even Pontinelli shifted his weight and glanced at Trust out of the corner of his eye.

“This is our party,” Trust said then, not really to anyone in particular. His campfire eyes lifted and rolled over every face as he spoke. “We come from all walks of life, with all kinds of experience. Every one of you has something to offer, and for that, you are the same to me. From this point on, you are brothers and sisters, and your trials will be this mission. After we report in from Galahebriel, once it is safe and has been reconnected to Stormever, each of you will no longer be a Legion Recruit, you will be a Legionnaire. From this point on, if any of you attempt to leave, to desert us, then you will be hunted down and killed.” His gaze fell heavily onto Batina. Then Trust lifted his left hand into the air. Thunder rolled in the dark clouds above. The demidemon waited, his lips moving, but no words that Nerithari could hear came out.

Bron was the first to lift his left arm as well, and then Nerithari. Then the others lifted their hands, all but Pontinelli, and once even Batina’s hand was in the air, Trust whispered a word and light flashed out from him, so fast and brilliant it put lightning to shame. Nerithari blinked but couldn’t see anything, and by the swearing, she wasn’t the only one.

She wasn’t sure what she was expecting, but she knew that whatever Trust had just done was some sort of binding spell that linked them to the Legion. She didn’t feel any different, though.

When she could finally see, she looked at her hand but saw no difference.

The others also looked at their hands, wincing and cringing they they were in pain. She wasn’t sure why she felt nothing, but perhaps she hadn’t been affected by the spell.

Pontinelli spoke up then, explaining what had just happened, as Trust had turned his back on them in favor of collecting and calming the horses. Nearby civilians had also taken an interest in the ritual, but he waved them off with warnings that this was Legion business and not their concern.

“Your souls have been marked,” Pontinelli said, “that’s the pain you feel. Should you turn your intentions against the Legion, others marked will be able to feel it. If you try to leave, this is how they hunt you,” the wizard explained.

“How’s that any different from Branding?” Batina snapped, looking angry as she stormed up to Trust.

He barely glanced over his shoulder at her, his hands busy with the horse tack. “Your freewill remains intact. You are free to choose to leave the Legion. And you know the consequence of doing it. If you are able, you are welcome to flee those hunting you. We just make it very difficult,” he added the last part as a snarl and turned to face her.

Batina stood at her full height, not even to his hip, and balled her fists up. At her side, Mithral shifted uncomfortably, his face twisted in disgust, like he smelled something rotten. She noticed reactions from the rest of the group, but felt nothing to react to.

Trust lifted a hand, his palm glowing pale gold.

“Calm yourself, recruit, or you’ll lose yourself before the journey begins.”

The others relaxed as Batina’s shoulder slumped and she stepped back from Trust. He looked like he used a calming spell on her, but she couldn’t be sure since it was a different color than the one he had previously used on her.

Trust turned to the others then. “The pain will fade. You will notice when you’re around other Legionnaires, you will feel stronger, it will take you longer to grow exhausted, and you will be able to tell when another Legionnaire is injured or killed. The longer you are with the Legion, the stronger your connection will be, and the more power you can draw from it.”

“You talk about it like it is some kind of magic itself,” Armstrong asked, looking confused.

“In a way it is,” Trust stated and then looked at the others. “It’s not something I can teach you, you will have to discover how to tap into the gift of the connection on your own, but when you do, you will find you’re able to do things you never could have before.”

Nerithari had never heard of this part of the Legion. She had no idea there was a connection between the soldiers, or that it gave them some kind of power to draw on when they worked together.

Fear suddenly gripped her. Why didn’t she feel the connection? This pain that the others obviously felt? Had Trust left her out of the connection or was there something wrong with her?

She turned to Mithral then, noticing how he glared heavily at his hand. It only took him a moment to notice her gaze and he quickly looked up and gave her a crooked smile. “We’re Legionnaires now, m’lady.” She smiled at that, deciding not to tell him about her fear yet. “It’s good to see you smile after all that’s happened,” he commented.

She knew it wasn’t his intention, but she was reminded in that moment of what had happened and it stole the smile from her lips. She deflated and looked around as the others started talking and preparing for a long march.

Had she just made the worst decision of her life? She couldn’t change her mind now.


	7. Chapter 6: Trouble

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The recruits run into problems on the road to Galahebriel.

Trust felt the power of the recruits the moment the light touched their souls. He knew none of them expected this, but he knew he couldn’t wait to do this until after the trials, not with how closely he would have to watch some of them. Not to mention he had no idea what he was walking into with Galahebriel.

Poe wasted no time commenting on what Trust had done. “Shouldn’t the connection be made after the trials? When they become official Legionnaires?” He asked in a low voice, meant only for Trust’s ears. He even casually stood beside him, looking at the group as Trust finished with the horses.

Trust glanced over at the human and lifted a brow. “I had no idea you were so well acquainted with the Legion’s ways, Prime Protector.”

The old wizard glared halfheartedly at Trust’s deflection. “It’s okay to admit you’re scared, Legionnaire.”

“For me to admit that, it would have to be true,” Trust offered and turned to the group. “We’re off, marching order is two lines, ranged in the back, melee in the front, noncombatants in the center.”

Mithral and Bron took the front, Armstrong and Batina ended up in the back, and John and Nerithari took the middle. Trust offered one of the dark elves’ horses over to Poe to guide, and he accepted it. Trust kept the other’s reins in hand and started their march for Galahebriel down the High Road as it disappeared into the great forest of the south.

The trees were large, old and strong from weathering Benava’s storms for so many years, and their canopy actually created a rather dry path for the party. Trust also noted as they grew farther from the city, the rain eased up.

Unlike other groups of recruits Trust had experience with, this party didn’t talk much. It seemed like Bron was the only one to take an interest in conversation. He asked questions of each of the others, even of Poe, and would persist when no answer was given.

He did keep from asking Trust any questions until he’d gotten his fill of the others. “So, cap’n, what happened to your last squad?”

The question hit Trust like an arrow in the spine. He tried not to let it outwardly affect him, but he could tell by the looks on the others’ faces they noticed. Even Bron wrinkled his nose and looked away.

“Er, sorry, cap’n, just thought maybe they all graduated on to bigger and better is all.”

Trust shook his head and looked on down the High Road as it wove through the dense forest. “No, my previous squad was a group of experienced Legionnaires. We were set against an upstart claiming to be a king. He had Old King’s Blood and thought that meant he had the right to rule. He had amassed a good following before Master Sinyier of Starsigh realized his Protectors weren’t incompetent, and the true reason they couldn’t bring him in was his magic. Sinyier employed the Legion and the Legion sent my team.”

“And you were the only one to make it out alive,” Poe finished the story for Trust.

Trust didn’t look his way. “I wouldn’t say that.”

“Did anyone else make it?” Nerithari asked, her mismatched eyes wide with concern.

“No. I am all that remains of that unit. My general sent me on this mission to replace our lost numbers,” he explained. What had happened remained with him on a level that kept him from sleeping most nights. He had made calls that cost people their lives. When he had lost men before, it was nothing like what had happened against that mage-king.

“It was a punishment as much as a recruitment effort,” Mithral piped up. He stated it like a fact, but the other recruits all shot glares his way, much to Trust’s surprise. It seemed he wasn’t the only with a distaste for the dark elf’s tactless comments.

“Watch it, boy,” Bron snapped, glaring up at the taller man, though one could not call Mithral larger.

“It’s all right, Bron, he’s right. Halt,” he added, letting go of the horse to come to stand at the front of the stopped group. He looked at Mithral.

The young man appeared to be younger than him, but elves were funny that way, he’d found. His crimson eyes were cast in shadow by his dark eyebrows pulled tight above them. Surprisingly, Trust didn’t feel a hint of rebellion in him. Their connection would alert him by making Trust feel sick like something bad was about to happen if the dark elf had intentions against the Legion. Surprisingly, he felt normal, loyal even, despite his previous oppositions, but Trust had known of Legionnaires able to fool the magic, he had simply never seen the ability to do so in a recruit.

“I’m not perfect, nor do I claim to be, but I am your commander, and you will follow my orders,” he stated, keeping his attention focused solely on Mithral now. He waited for any hint of rebellion, even none magical ones.

“What if you order us to do something that could kill us?” Batina barked from the back.

Trust didn’t turn his eyes away from Mithral. “I promise you I will, and I expect you to follow the order.” After a pause, before she could reply, Trust added, “And I expect you to try your best not to die. But know I will never order you to do something I don’t believe you can do, that I don’t believe needs done, or that I don’t believe will accomplish the mission.” This time he raised his chin and turned his face toward the others, but he still kept his molten eyes on Mithral, none of them would be able to tell the difference.

The dark elf never let his blood colored eyes leave Trust’s face.

After that, they settled a camp on the side of the road and rested. Trust taught them the standard the Legion required in a camp, what the two on watch were expected to do, and how to defend the camp if they came under attack.

Once everything was put in its place, Nerithari approached Trust, wringing her hands nervously. “Can I speak to you?” she asked, looking worried. She had been uneasy since the Joining Spell.

“Of course,” Trust waved for her to follow him to the horses.

Once they were far enough away from the others, the young dark elf folded her arms across her chest and cast her eyes around, looking for something to settle on that wasn’t Trust. He knew what this was about, but he didn’t want to be the one to say anything.

“When you cast that spell, to connect everyone,” she started, finally looking at him, “I didn’t feel anything. I don’t think it worked on me.”

Trust nodded, he’d been thinking of what to tell her. The truth wasn’t an option, at least not yet, not when Poe was so close. “I wasn’t sure if you would change your mind,” he lied smoothly. She frowned some, like she’d thought of that.

“Then why have Mithral join?” she asked.

Trust had thought of that occurring to her. “I can release him if you decided not to stay, I didn’t want him influencing your decision. If he believes you both are already joined then he won’t try to persuade you to leave.”

She nodded, seeming to accept that excuse. “It feels wrong, if all the others are joined, then I should be to,” she said and gestured to the group vaguely. “If you can reverse the connection, then I could decide later–”

He shook his head. “No, Nerithari, if you join, then that’s your decision. No one else has the option to leave after the joining, I only proposed it for Mithral because he is bound to you, yet you allow him to influence you.”

In reality, he could not reverse the connection. A mark on the soul couldn’t simply be healed. He could sever Mithral’s connection, but it would cause him more pain than he had most likely ever felt, and he would still wear the remains of the mark on his soul, allowing Legionnaires with strong connections to notice him. If he were noticed, he would be hunted.

The girl’s eyes gave away everything she felt. She was confused, rightfully so, but he could not explain to her just yet. She had no idea what she was, and she had no idea what she was capable of.

Nerithari’s large eyes blinked several times, and then she nodded, swallowing hard. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to disrespect the joining, Trust.”

“I know,” he comforted her. “Believe me, Nerithari, you haven’t offended me.”

She sighed, seeming to feel better. “Thank you.”

“Don’t rush the decision, Nerithari, you are the only one here that truly can walk away from this and be unaffected.” It wasn’t a lie, but it wasn’t the truth. He wasn’t able to explain to her she would be the safest with him. She would ask why, or feel pressure to join him because of it.

“You need recruits,” she said, looking confused. “Why do you keep telling me to think this over? It seems that you don’t want me to join the Legion.”

Trust laughed, the sound low and deep, honest. He didn’t mean to do it, but he couldn’t stop himself. She flinched at his outburst and he tried to soften her embarrassment with a smile, though he knew his predatory teeth would make it menacing. “I’m sorry I have made you feel unwanted, Nerithari, I promise you, my intentions are quite the opposite,” he admitted and noticed her cheeks flush. He looked away from her, trying to think of a way to make her understand without telling her everything. “You’re right, I need men, and when Poe said you had magic… that would be even more help. But I cannot bring myself to accept you as a recruit simply because I fear you will regret it. Right now you feel like you have no other option, and yet you might. If you find later that this decision was made too hastily, then you will hate yourself and me.” He sighed and looked back at her. “I just want this to be something you want, rather than something you feel you have to do.”

Nerithari nodded, seeming to accept what he said. “Thank you,” she breathed, her voice soft. She was quite pretty, he noticed now. Her skin was dark, like obsidian, and her hair white as snow. Her face was heart shaped, framed by the long locks, and her pointed elvish ears stuck out to accentuate her cheekbones.

Trust shifted, realizing he’d stared at her for too long. Her dark cheeks had warmed and her mismatched, blood and ocean, eyes stared up at him with a similar interest she no doubt saw in his.

“I’ll give it some time, like you want,” she said, looking away from him. Her lips curled into a smile, but he wasn’t sure what she was thinking. “I think you already know what my decision will be.”

He smirked and nodded. “We’ll see.”

Nerithari returned to the camp to get something to eat. Trust remained by the horses for some time, watching the young dark elf. She would decide to join the Legion, and he would have to find a way to train her to use her magic, without Poe learning her truth.

Trust ran his fingers through the short, black hair on his head and whispered a soft prayer to Gormavir for help with the coming days.

The recruits trained for several hours before resting the next two days of travel. They made good time. Poe said they would make it to Galahebriel in just another day and a half at their pace. They had diverted from the High Road, and were using a worn dirt road wide enough for a cart, perhaps two if they rubbed wheels.

Nerithari hadn’t yet learned how to use her magic, but Trust knew it was only a matter of time. He didn’t have time to focus on her like he wanted. He needed to get Bron, Armstrong, Mithral, and Batina combat ready, and Nerithari had taken well to the crossbow John brought along. She was good enough to hit a stationary target reliably, but a moving target was completely different.

Batina’s magic was wild, and she used more energy than necessary to cast her spells, even Poe agreed with Trust’s assessment. She had taken no time to learn healing spells, which was unlike a druid, but Trust had given her a few to work on. Unfortunately, the best way to learn healing magic was on actual wounds, and without those, Batina wouldn’t gain much skill.

Armstrong was quite skillful with his bow, but he suffered from two left feet and often stumbled over even easy terrain. He was able to hit any target give him, moving, hidden, or otherwise, but only if he, himself, was stationary.

Mithral was a perfectly capable warrior, his longsword was a perfect extension of his arm, and when handed a small shield he performed just as masterfully. He did not work well, ironically, as a team, or when protecting other than himself. Trust found this odd since he was literally a bodyguard.

And then there was Bron. He was more than good with his two handed battleaxe, and he was the only one that Trust felt not only wanted to be in the Legion, but liked it. He already referred to the Legion as ‘we,’ including himself beyond what the others did. He also started to reprimand anyone who spoke other than favorably of the Legion.

John had no intention to fight beyond protecting himself, but he did make himself busy with keeping everyone’s supplies as pristine as he could without a shop. Trust was happy to have him along.

Poe didn’t overstep, much to Trust’s surprise. He only spoke when spoken to, and did what he could to help Batina’s magic along.

Every day that they got closer to Galahebriel without seeing someone on the road, he grew more uneasy. By the time they reached the plains that marked the halfway point to Galahebriel, Trust couldn’t relax enough to sleep at night, ready for the encounter that would catch his new team off guard, and probably kill someone.

Shortly after midday, the party encountered just what Trust had been waiting for. Bandits.

A makeshift toll had been built up on either side of the road, built into rolling hills that lined the path. A gate kept any traffic looking to proceed stopped until someone above allowed passage. Trust could tell just by looking at the shoddy craftsmanship of the towers and walls, that bandits had put it together rather than those employed by the Dragon Master.

Of course, he was expecting there to be someone on the wall to require payment for passage, but there was no one to be seen. Trust frowned as he approached and lifted a hand for the party to halt.

Poe kept beside him, his hands glowing faintly with a prepared spell.

The complex was silent, causing the hair on the back of Trust’s neck to stand on end. He felt something, it was… evil, and it came from all around him, but he couldn’t place it.

The gate was not locked, and when Trust pushed on it, he found little resistance. He slowly opened it, his hands going to his shield and mace to prepare for what was on the other side. The faint aroma of death tickled his nose, and he knew before seeing what waited within this bandit camp.

The camp was set up on the road to allow carts to come in, be searched –or raided– and then moved along on their original course. Walls circled the entire encampment and buildings were pushed up against them to allow for an open space in the center.

A body slumped to the ground in front of Trust, pushed from its position against the gate. It had been human, or perhaps elf, but now it was rotted and patches of its flesh were scaly. Trust knew just by looking at it that it was the Dragon Plague, and by the look on Poe’s face upon laying eyes on the corpse, so did the Prime Protector.

Trust lifted his mace and whispered a word. A bright, pale blue light shot down from the cloudless sky and struck his mace, then blew what looked like a large bubble of light, around him. The bubble expanded out about ten feet from him, taking in Poe, but laying over the body, creating a protective barrier.

Poe’s brows rose and fell, interested. He didn’t say anything, though, and instead knelt beside the body. “Looks like she’s been dead for two days, the Plague didn’t kill her, something ripped out her intestines.”

The recruits must have gotten bored, as the gate nudged open some and Mithral strode in, followed closely by an irritated Bron. “I saw the light,” the he-elf indicated to the sky with his chin. “Just making sure nothing got you, sir.”

Trust ignored the recruit’s comments and nodded to a nearby door. “Check out that room, be careful, looks like the Dragon Plague hit here.”

Mithral stiffened, his nose wrinkling in disgust, but he nodded and grabbed his sword. Bron readied his hammer and followed behind him.

The other recruits ended up coming in the gate just a moment later, but Trust was about to call for them. He would address the meaning of following orders later, right now, they needed to make sure none of the afflicted were still alive. Since the shield lay over the corpse instead of accepting it into the bubble, it was still possible to contract the illness from the body. He relayed this information to the recruits, receiving a mix of understanding and confusion. Apparently, Armstrong had never heard of the Dragon Plague. Trust didn’t have a chance to explain what it was.

A crash came from the room Bron and Mithral were investigating. A battlecry and a sickly crunch followed.

The door burst open and out poured a mess of flailing bodies. Mithral barely kept out of their reach as afflicted bandits grasped and snapped at him. When he got to the bubble, he fell through its protective barrier, and the bodies fell onto him, the barrier stretching to stay between them, keeping Mithral safe, but only from the Plague. Their weight laying on him could crush him, or if they struck him with one of their flailing limbs, they could still hurt him.

Armstrong reached for his bow, but he was shaking, and he dropped the arrows he tried to pull from his quiver. Batina on the other hand, lifted her hands, eyes and fingertips glowing green, and roots came up from the ground, pulling at the bodies, removing them from on top of Mithral.

Trust had to keep his concentration on his shield, if he cast another spell, the shield would disappear and anyone that touched one of the afflicted would contract it. Poe stood behind Trust, his magic was strong, but most likely his spells would also hit Mithral while he was so close to the afflicted. Trust didn’t turn to see what the wizard was doing, and instead readied his mace to try to get those that were not pulled away by roots.

His mace connected with softened skulls, knocking back bodies so they tumbled away from Mithral, allowing him to get up onto his elbow and then roll onto his feet. When Trust moved, the shield stretched closer to the door, drifting over the bodies, laying on them like a weightless sheet. It nearly reached the doorway, which allowed Bron to rush out of the building and into the safety of the shield.

Nerithari and John had run for cover from combat by rushing farther into the camp, a decision that Trust hadn’t applied thought to until he heard a scream from that direction.

Trust quickly spun around and saw the she-elf kick an afflicted off of John. The smith crawled away and scrambled to get his crossbow. Trust resisted casting a spell to help, but Poe took the opportunity and threw a bolt of fire at the afflicted. It burst into flames, consumed quickly.

More came out of the buildings, drawn by the noise. Trust tried to move so that the shield covered as many of his recruits as he could, but as they defended themselves and moved, they grew too far apart.

“Closer to me, unless you want infected!” Trust hollered, but between the growling afflicted and the cries of combat, no one paid him mind.

Trust knew what was going to happen now. Slowly, his recruits would be infected by the Dragon Plague, some would be killed. They could probably clear the camp, and they would have no more than a day before all of the recruits succumbed to the Plague and turned on those unaffected.

He could pretend to heal the afflicted recruits, and kill them in their sleep. It would be painless for them, and whoever was left would no doubt understand. He imagined only he, Poe, and Nerithari would remain.

Could Nerithari understand? Would seeing her only remaining guard become infected and then killed, be too much for her? He wouldn’t blame her for leaving, but he did wonder what she would do without him at that point.

Lightning struck the ground, blinding and deafening the whole complex. Trust knew what it was before he recovered his sight.

The afflicted rolled around, confused and stunned, hitting each other as much as his men. And from the west entrance came a squad draped in Legion Blue.

There were no more than ten, but as the Legionnaires poured into the camp, they took out the afflicted with a practiced precision that Trust craved. His previous squad had possessed the ability to clear a location without a command or word spoken between men. It had certainly not been his men’s ability that killed them all.

The captain leading the charge was familiar to Trust, bringing a smile to his face despite the situation. Archangel Felyndiira Nyrak, Captain of the Forsaken Legion was a good friend of Trust’s. They’d been recruited at the same time and trained together. Where Trust had taken the path of a Legion Grave Digger, Felyndiira had strived for more, becoming one of the elite Angels of the Legion. She was rewarded after her many years of excellent service, and she now commanded the team she had wanted so much to be apart of.

The ten Legionnaires coming to save his men were the Legion’s Angels.


End file.
